Doing it for the Order
by DesertC
Summary: The Order asks Hermione Granger to lay down for Severus Snape.
1. Doing it for the Order

A/N: Hey peeps, this is my version of 6th year HP (HBP). Some elements are canon compliant and others are my own. I hope you enjoy it, DSx.

Adult readers only, 18+.

* * *

Someone had died.

There could be no other explanation. She'd never seen any of them more melancholy—as though the colour had been sucked out of all three, leaving them washed out and sombre grey. Professor McGonagall tried to smile as Hermione entered but it was nothing more than a brief cinching of her puckered lips, making her appear even more ominously grim. Dumbledore's eyes, too, were devoid of their usual sparkle, dark pockets of skin hanging beneath them like tired drapes.

The news was bad. _Was it her parents?_ She hadn't spoken to either of them for over two weeks. _Had something happened?_

The final figure in the room, as dark and rigid as a pewter bust by the window, was Professor Snape, whose black eyes flickered away as soon as they met hers, focusing instead upon the grey sky beyond the panes.

"What's happened?" She glanced apprehensively between the three, wondering who had been tasked with delivering the news.

An awkward silence ensued during which Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged meaningful glances, while Snape continued to glare out at a morning that was as bleak as his wintry gaze.

"It might be best if you take a seat." Professor McGonagall nodded to the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk, folding her hands into a nervous knot.

As Hermione sank into the chair, crossing her arms in an attempt to ward off whatever was coming, she noted that none of them chose to join her, remaining standing in the oppressive silence which only served to deepen her dread.

"Miss Granger." Dumbledore's tone, when he finally addressed her, was grave and ponderous, as though his words were being released with reluctance.

Hermione sighed inwardly. She couldn't help feeling that it was quite unfair of them to be drawing this out.

"No one has died."

Her shoulders sagged as she blinked out her relief. Clearly he'd read her expression. "What is it then?"

His own expression remained stern.

"The Order wishes to discuss something with you. Something extremely serious and," he delivered a sideways glance in Snape's direction, ". . . exceedingly . . . delicate."

McGonagall's eyes widened as she stared at the carpet. Hermione took it to mean that Dumbledore's words were an understatement.

"As you know, the Order's actions have managed to elevate the level of disharmony within the Dark Lord's ranks. And whilst it is useful to our cause, it has driven Voldemort to take extreme measures to establish the loyalty of his followers. The most recent demands are . . . disturbing . . . to say the least."

He paused and inhaled deeply, his roving gaze finding no support from McGonagall or Snape who continued to intently regard their chosen segments of carpet and window.

"Miss Granger." Dumbledore sighed, leaning on his desk with both hands. "You already know that Voldemort has perpetrated some heinous crimes against Muggles—the latest being a string of attacks against Muggle women, some of which have made the papers."

Hermione nodded slowly.

"It turns out that this is part of a Muggle decree that has been issued in an attempt to enhance his reach and weed out the traitors within his ranks." His gaze lingered on Snape this time, another sigh further deflating him. "In fact, he killed one of his most trusted followers last week for failing to comply."

"To comply with what exactly, Professor?" Hermione shifted position in her seat, struggling to see what this conversation had to do with her.

Dumbledore swallowed with difficulty. She'd never seen him so uncomfortable.

"Voldemort has ordered that all Death Eaters should have unprotected intercourse with as many Muggle women as possible—in an attempt to augment the Magical bloodlines."

Hermione was taken aback. "Doesn't that go against everything he despises about race mixing?"

Dumbledore raised a shaggy eyebrow in acknowledgement. "It seems he's realised there's more power in breeding out Muggles than attempting to maintain the sanctity of pure Wizarding bloodlines."

Hermione had heard some horrific stories about what the Death Eaters were doing to Muggles. She was afraid for her own family and friends and, admittedly, she was also afraid for herself.

"You mean rape, don't you?" she stated boldly. "They're raping Muggles."

"Yes," Professor McGonagall interjected, her green eyes flashing with anger. "They're raping Muggles."

"And is there something you wish me to do?" Hermione's eyes swept around the room, looking for verification. "Warn them? Protect them?"

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose in a manner that made Hermione wonder if it was he from whom Snape had acquired the habit.

"Professor Snape is our only means of access to Voldemort's plans." Dumbledore spoke quietly into his palm. "He is the reason Harry is still alive. He is the reason we are all still alive. And . . ." He dropped the hand to regard Hermione directly. "The Professor is currently at great risk from Voldemort's latest decree."

Hermione's gaze lingered on Snape. He hadn't moved from the window—his ghostly face so starkly illuminated that it appeared devoid of features, all except the grim seam of his mouth and distant, coal black eyes. In reality, she barely knew the man. He was exceedingly private and conversed in a manner that vacillated between derision and sarcasm, making it impossible to foster any sort of connection, no matter how superficial.

 _So Snape was at risk. When wasn't he?_

"Perhaps you should explain, Severus?" Dumbledore addressed him resignedly.

Professor Snape didn't respond. It was as though he hadn't heard—or his mind was drifting elsewhere. After a protracted silence, he blinked slowly and turned to face her. If she hadn't known better she would have read his expression as one of contempt as, crossing his arms, he took a step forward.

"I carry an enchantment. It ensures that I conform to the decree—mandatory intercourse—one Muggle per week." The words were delivered in a monotone, each sliding out in an unhurried, matter-of-fact manner that made it difficult to believe they were discussing his sex-life—if it could be considered as such. "The enchantment requires a different Muggle each time. If I fail to deliver . . . I will be . . . eliminated."

His words were cold but their meaning was colder. The death of Snape was synonymous with the likely death of Voldemort's greatest enemy, her best friend, Harry Potter. It was serious.

"Surely there are plenty of Muggle . . . prostitutes that could be . . . recruited?" Hermione tried to be discreet but finding the appropriate words was difficult.

"The Dark Lord forbids entry to such establishments. Men tend to talk when they're . . ." He hesitated. "Brothels are not secure environments for sensitive information. The Dark Lord has spies to ensure that we do not seek out such company."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She wasn't used to conversing with Snape for this length of time and certainly not over the current subject matter.

"Well, I would hardly know of such things," she responded dismissively. And immediately wished she hadn't.

One black eyebrow arched before his gaze turned hard. He glared at Dumbledore. "I think we're finished here," he ground out before turning his back on her.

Dumbledore raised a hand. "Now, now, Severus, we _will_ bring this discussion to a conclusion. However, it is important that Miss Granger be made aware of the proposal."

"There is . . . no . . . proposal." Snape kept his back to her, spitting his words out like chips of black ice.

"Not wishing to appear indelicate, Miss Granger." Dumbledore's cheeks were flushed as he appraised her over his spectacles. "But . . . when you suggested that you would 'hardly know of such things' . . . were you indicating that you are, perhaps, still a virgin?"

"What do you mean 'still'?" Hermione replied tersely, looking at Professor McGonagall for support.

Minerva's expression was one of such pity that it drove Hermione up from her seat.

"Tell me what's going on right now," she demanded, her voice quaking with a combination of fear and embarrassment. "Or I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave. I don't appreciate the status of my . . . my hymen . . . being discussed so openly. And . . . and . . . there being an insinuation that being a virgin is somehow . . . improper."

"Let the girl go," Snape hissed.

Dumbledore approached him, grasping his elbow firmly. "Severus. There is no other option. You know that yourself. We have exhausted every one of them. She must be told."

"Told what?" Hermione's voice rose with tremulous unease.

"Miss Granger . . ." Professor McGonagall stepped forward, reaching out a hand toward her before allowing it to drop resignedly to her side. "There is one solution to this . . . to this dilemma."

Her mouth twitched as she wrestled with how to phrase her next statement.

"A Muggle-born witch—a witch with two Muggle parents—will satisfy the conditions of the enchantment."

Hermione's eyes widened before her jaw clenched in realisation.

"But, such a witch is also imbued with the innate capacity to magically alter herself—to deceive the identification component of the enchantment."

Her mouth opened and closed twice before Hermione managed to make a sound. "What are you saying? That I could be the one to . . ." She glared at Snape's vacant back. "And because I can impersonate different people, it could be me . . . every . . . time?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head apologetically. "You are the only member of the Order with such a unique . . . profile."

"Profile?!"

"You are the only one who could be trusted to perform such a role." Professor McGonagall emphasised the word 'trust'. "We're so sorry to ask this of you, Hermione."

She did look genuinely aggrieved.

Hermione backed away from her. "Why can't he pick up someone at a club and screw them like everybody else?" she rasped, her throat constricting as she drew her arms even tighter around herself.

Professor McGonagall's face dropped, her cheeks shuddering under the weight of the admission.

"It is the 'unprotected' part that poses the greatest risk. If they don't agree, he would need to Obliviate them."

"So?"

"So . . . It would be rape, Hermione. Surely you can see that," McGonagall implored her. "And the more Professor Snape engages with others, especially Muggles, outside of the Order, the more risk there is to all of us."

"But it's okay for me?" Hermione choked. "For me to be raped instead?"

"That is _not_ what we are asking of you." Professor McGonagall took quick steps forward and grasped her by the hand. "Never against your wishes."

"But I don't—"

"I will find another . . . solution." Snape whirled around to face them. "This is my problem. It is certainly not Miss Granger's."

"Severus. There isn't another solution." Dumbledore fixed Snape with his intense gaze. "I believe that your preference would be to suffer at Voldemort's hands . . . rather than to force such an unconscionable decision upon Miss Granger but I'm afraid this is not about your preferences. Your life is too valuable. Harry's life—the future of the Wizarding World—requires your survival. And you deserve to be protected."

Hermione saw the strain in Dumbledore's face. He'd asked a lot of the dark wizard and obviously felt responsible on some level for the danger he'd placed him in—and for his current predicament.

She thought also about Harry, about the peril he faced on a daily basis and how much more extreme it would be if they no longer received vital information about Voldemort's whereabouts and his plans via Snape. _Could she live with that on her conscience?_ _Knowing that she was responsible?_ _Were her sensibilities even worth it?_

It did seem selfish in that moment. And although she was on the verge of being sick, she knew she had to do what was best for Harry.

"I'll do it," she murmured.

All three turned to face her.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore inclined his head.

"I said I'll do it." She raised her trembling chin.

Then as the tears started to fall she pointed a finger directly at him. "No one . . . can know."

Turning, she stormed out the door, feeling very strongly that someone had died—it was Hermione Granger, she'd lost her inner child.


	2. A Tall Order

"Alright?"

Harry sat down opposite her at the Gryffindor table, pouring cereal into a bowl as he licked his palm and tried to tame a swathe of bristling 'bed hair' that was refusing to behave.

Absently flicking her wand, Hermione cast a settling incantation, instantly flattening his dark locks.

"Thanks." He threw her a sheepish grin, before shovelling in an enormous mouthful. "Slept in," he explained, spraying milk and flakes in her direction.

A droplet landed on her hand and she stared at it in wonder. She'd been up for hours. Even before Dumbledore's owl had arrived, pecking insistently at the window, she'd lain awake, haunted by memories of their 'discussion' from the previous day.

And, of course, the possibility of sleeping after opening the letter was nil.

"Looks appetising." Harry nodded at the breakfast she'd managed to stir into a sludge without consuming so much as a mouthful.

She smiled half-heartedly. "You can have it if you like."

"Can't." He shook his head. "We have Potions in five. Thought you would have been down there already."

Her shoulders tensed before she pretended to stretch. "I thought I'd wait for you."

He kept shovelling.

"What about Ron?" She glanced toward the door that students were now exiting in droves.

"Keeper practice." He picked up his bowl and slurped down the last of the milk. "Playing the Scrotums on Sunday."

"I thought you played Slytherin last Sunday?"

"Practice match."

Hermione blinked wearily. She had trouble keeping up with the various and constantly-changing permutations of Quidditch-related activities.

She watched as Harry leaned over and helped himself to two slices of toast before Accio-ing a jar of marmalade and beginning to spread. He absently licked a lump from his finger as he covered each slice with a generous layer.

 _He has no idea,_ she thought _. And why would he?_

Dumbledore's letter had politely informed her that 'by midnight that evening' the enchantment would need to be 'fulfilled'. She'd been furious about how ridiculously innocuous he'd made it sound. _Fulfilled?_ He was talking about her virginity, not some fucking aptitude test!

And now she knew why they'd all looked so morose. For some reason they'd seen fit to leave it until the penultimate day to put forward their 'proposal.'

 _What would have happened if she'd said 'No'?_ _And why couldn't Snape have contacted her himself?_ The perversity of Dumbledore managing 'the act' was even more bizarre and infuriating. _Should she owl him when it was done? Send him her blood-stained underwear as evidence?_

And to top it all off, she now had double Potions—two hours of hell with the man who would be claiming her virginity by the end of the day. It was inconceivable. And utterly terrifying. Like awaiting an execution. Even the lead up to Buckbeak's death hadn't felt nearly as bad because she'd had friends to share it with. Now it was just her. Alone.

"Cheer up 'Mione. Might never happen."

Hermione jerked to attention. Harry was watching her as he bit into his second slice. He was smiling but there was concern in his eyes.

"Unfortunately," she sighed, "I'm pretty sure that it is going to happen."

"Is everything alright?"

She leaned down to collect her bag from beside her chair. "I didn't sleep—thinking about NEWTs. You know me. If there isn't something to worry about, I'll make something up."

"True." Harry stuffed the last of the toast into his mouth before standing. "I'm glad you're not the Chosen One," he muttered thickly. "You'd be totally screwed."

She tossed her hair out of her face. "Maybe I _am_ the Chosen One. Just not in the same way that you are."

He halted and gave her a searching look. "Is there something I've missed? I haven't forgotten your birthday again, have I?"

She turned and started for the door. "I'm trying to tell you that you're not as important as you think you are."

"I think you'll find that I am."

Her mouth curled into a reluctant smile before she flicked her wand at him, sending his neat locks into disarray.

They were the last to arrive. Even Ron was already in his seat, thumbing through the text book with the rest of the class.

"Mr Potter and Miss Granger, will you kindly take your seats."

Harry's eyebrow ticked up in surprise before he quickly headed for his desk. Hermione followed, feeling the other students eyeing them suspiciously for managing to arrive late without house point deductions, or even copping the usual bollocking.

"You'll find the list of ingredients on page one hundred and five."

Hermione glanced up to see Snape looking at her, she felt him attempting to help her under the guise of continuing his instructions to the rest of the class. _Special treatment_. _How lucky_. The sarcastic voice in her head had been providing a running commentary on her life from the moment she'd left Dumbledore's office. It was completely unhelpful but she had a choice between that or collapsing in a fit of hysterical rage. She considered the voice to be slightly less dramatic.

Pulling out her text book, she turned to the correct page and scanned the ingredients. Her brain instantly clicked into calculating and planning mode. She had two hours of this. If she gave in to the tide of feelings that were threatening to swamp her, she would never be able to get through it. She needed to treat this entire thing as another task to complete—to get it over and done with as quickly as possible and move on. That was the only way forward.

And then Draco kicked her chair. She tried to ignore him, leaning closer to the book as though lost in deep concentration.

A moment later, her chair jolted again. "Granger," he hissed.

"What?" she snarled, twisting around to glare at him.

"You're looking particularly . . . fetching . . . this morning," he murmured, as his eyes slid down to her chest. She made the mistake of looking down, just in case she'd missed a button. She hadn't. There was nothing to see.

"Fuck off," she mouthed, not wanting her voice to carry to Snape.

As she turned back around, he whispered, "I have a feeling you're going to become very, very popular, _very_ soon."

Hermione froze. _What did he know?_ A hot flush rolled up from her chest until her face was burning. He and his father were both Death Eaters. _Was this something to do with the Muggle decree? Had she been discussed?_ Nausea rose as her stomach twisted. For some reason she hadn't thought about how her Muggle status might put her at further risk. _Would Dumbledore be looking to protect her also? Or was this all about taking care of Snape?_

A fresh surge of anger captured her as she watched Snape's swift, efficient strokes gliding across the blackboard. He might be extremely important—far more important than herself. But she didn't deserve to be simply used up and thrown away. If she did this for the Order, she would demand to be protected in return. There was no way she should have to put up with weasels like Draco Malfoy threatening her—and in class of all places, where she should be safe.

But as Snape turned and his black eyes met hers again, she realised the irony of it. There was a good chance that she would be taken right here in this classroom. This is where the deed would be done—her place of learning right from her most tender years, where she'd wrestled with complexity, studied and fought and mostly succeeded—this would now become her place of desecration, where she was set to lose not only her innocence but also her self-respect. She might be doing it for the Order, and to protect someone she loved. But she was still doing it.

Snape's eyes slid away from hers as he stalked forward to observe the progress of the students who were already chopping ingredients. Hermione tried to focus on the page before her but her eyes were swimming with tears.

 _No!_ She admonished herself angrily. _She_ had agreed. No one had forced her to do this. _She_ had made that decision, a difficult decision admittedly, but she'd weighed up some pretty poor options and come to the conclusion that it was the right thing to do. She really needed to pull herself together. This was, she reminded herself, a time of war. It wasn't a time to mourn her privileged childhood. Or for whimsical longing about some fairy-tale prince who was going to court her properly, charm her, sweep her off her feet, take her through that sweet, flirtatious period to that first highly-anticipated kiss.

No. There would be none of that. Her watery gaze followed the dark figure pacing silently around the room. She was basically a hole. A useful hole as it turned out, but a hole all the same. And that's as much attachment as she would have to the process. _Basic service provision_. Like a haircut, only shorter (hopefully), and closer, and messier . . . and more painful.

Drawing a deep breath, she blinked away her tears and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. _Service provision_. She could do that. He'd just better not expect service with a smile.

"I have fifteen minutes."

Hermione had surprisingly managed to produce a reasonable version of the potion and had also managed to pack up slowly enough to find herself the last remaining student in the classroom.

She found Professor Snape in his storeroom, tipping beetle eyes from a glass jar into a small vial. His head jerked up at her words, a tiny eye falling to the ground.

"I beg your pardon?"

Hermione looked at her watch.

"I have fourteen minutes."

He continued to hold the jar, eyes balanced precariously on the rim. "Fourteen minutes . . . for what?"

Hermione tugged on her bag strap impatiently. "I want to get this over and done with."

His frown deepened until he was looking at her as though she was insane.

"Miss Granger, you are a virgin."

"I am actually aware of that," she replied tersely. "Still, I'm busy for the rest of the day. This is the only time I can give you."

He continued to appraise her with the same expression. "You can give me?"

"Yes. I have classes all day. Then we have a Gryffindor common room meeting that I need to attend. I have homework to complete before tomorrow. Now is the only time."

Snape slowly placed the vial on a shelf before turning to face her.

"Miss Granger, I appreciate that you have agreed to . . . assist me in this matter. But, this is not something to be executed between lessons. It will require longer. I suggest that you forego your meeting. I will inform Professor McGonagall that you won't be attending."

"But I _want_ to attend," Hermione argued.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible."

Her mouth hung open, quite unable to believe that she wasn't even going to be afforded the dignity of choosing the timing of this horrifying event. But there was nothing more she could think of to say.

Snapping her mouth shut, she turned on her heel and stormed off.

"Miss Granger?"

She halted and swung back to face him, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

He was at the storeroom door. "When you return you might attempt to be a little more . . . relaxed?"

"Relaxed?!" Her head snapped forward as though she'd been punched in the stomach.

"And how do you suggest I do that, Professor?"

Snape sighed, pressing his lips together.

"With the knowledge that my virginity is about to be taken by a man I don't particularly know, whom I don't particularly like, and whom is twice my age?"

She glared at him a moment longer before continuing toward the door.

". . . In a fucking dungeon!" she threw over her shoulder before crashing out the door.

Snape waited a heartbeat before spinning around and hurling the jar back into the storeroom, smashing it, and an entire shelf of glassware, to smithereens.

 _Why did it have to be her?_

 _Why not someone a little more agreeable, or passive, or willing?_

Breathing heavily, he ran both hands distractedly through his hair. She'd been clumsily manipulated, and asked to do something that was exceedingly improper—he'd be angry too.

But she was such a poor choice by the Order. She was too bright and would naturally overthink everything, she was zealously over-principled as evidenced by her ridiculous plight on behalf of the House Elves amongst other things, she had that annoying Gryffindor temerity, mostly at the wrong times, and she was dangerous—her Wandwork was unsurpassed and she could easily Hex him during one of these encounters if she felt so inclined. She might be 'of age' but she was less than half of 'his age' as she'd kindly pointed out. And, finally, she hadn't agreed to this for the Order, she'd agreed to it for the sake of Harry Potter, which pissed him off no end.

There didn't need to be more of them sacrificing themselves for, so called, 'noble causes'.

Lacing his fingers behind his head, he paced the stone floor. Dumbledore might be brilliant but he was very much focused on the 'big picture.' He clearly couldn't afford to be undone by the minutiae of what they were all forced to do on a daily basis—otherwise they would fail to function altogether. But having to live out these moments, each one excruciating in its own right, was eroding him piece by piece. And, no doubt, Miss Granger also. And what purpose was there in focusing upon a 'big picture' at all, if every one of its elements was slowly crumbling away?


	3. Taking Orders

_A/N: Thanks for all of the lovely feedback and comments. Sorry I haven't managed to get around to my responses yet._ _I've been writing furiously today to try to get a chapter up for those of you who need a bit of a diversion from the real world. I hope it helps. DSx_

* * *

 _What_ _—no mood lighting? No Barry White?_ Hermione stood in the doorway to the Potions classroom. She had been on tenterhooks all day and was now almost delirious with fatigue. She'd not managed to consume anything but a cup of tea at dinner time and now felt so fragile and pissed off that the sarcastic voice in her head was rolling out lines like a seasoned stand-up.

Even though she hadn't knocked before entering, Snape suddenly emerged from a door on the far side of the room. Maybe he'd been waiting for her. Or maybe she'd tripped his wards. Whatever, the result was still the same, they were facing off on opposite sides of his dingy, cold classroom and all Hermione wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

"Miss Granger." His words were less a greeting and more an acknowledgement of the stand-off.

Regardless, she didn't care to exchange pleasantries. There was nothing pleasant about it.

"Where do you want me?" She ambled into the room, arms still crossed, letting the door bang closed behind her.

He remained stock-still. Everything except for his hand. Hermione noticed his thumbnail curling around to glide across the cuticle of his ring finger. He was thinking. And uncomfortable. Well, at least he appeared to possess some basic human emotions. This situation was abysmal.

"I thought, perhaps, my quarters would be appropriate." His eyes flickered toward the door behind him.

 _His quarters? His bed?_ That was hardly neutral territory. And it wasn't as though they were in a relationship—or even having a fling. No, this deserved to be done in a manner that reflected the cold, emotionless approach by which it had been conceived.

"I'd prefer to stay here."

She had complained earlier about losing her virginity in a dungeon but it now seemed appropriate. Detached. Passionless.

His fingers stilled but even from this distance she could see his chest rising and falling more forcefully. Hermione realised that whilst she was wielding the power in this interaction, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't really hurt her. He was a former Death Eater—he would have done all sorts of things to all sorts of people. He was under no obligation to treat her in any particular way now that she'd agreed. In fact, he could also do whatever he liked and simply Obliviate her.

And that was her worst fear. She was petrified of being Obliviated. It was an imprecise magic and could cause all sorts of fragmentation. She would prefer to remember something traumatic than be Obliviated because of it.

And so she wouldn't be traumatised. She would show that she could take whatever he threw at her. But she also had no intention of being submissive in all this. It was her body and she would choose the manner in which he engaged with it—which was preferably as little as physically possible.

He was unbuttoning his frock coat. And slowly approaching her. As his fingers flicked nimbly down his chest, each unhurried step caused his eyes to glint eerily in the low torchlight.

When he reached his desk, he tugged briskly at each sleeve before shrugging the entire garment from his shoulders and tossing it onto the desk. Sweeping a hand across it, he transfigured the material into something thicker, more cushioned, before turning back to her and flipping open the cuff buttons on his shirt.

"Shall we make a start then?" he muttered.

Hermione hesitated. _Should she be undressing too?_ There didn't seem to be a lot of point. She'd kept her uniform on so he could simply lift her skirt, avoiding engaging in any awkward trouser-removal ceremony. _No_. She'd remain fully clothed. He might even be able to just pull her knickers aside and get in that way. Then she could simply flip her skirt back down and be out the door without so much as a backward glance.

She walked as casually as possible over to the desk but felt unable to uncross her arms, it was just too exposing. And by the time she finally reached him, she knew she looked haughty and defiant but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

His eyes searched her face for a moment before he reached out a hand toward her. His fingertips only just brushed her sleeve before she stepped backwards, turned and leaned over the desk. Reaching behind her, she yanked her skirt up to expose her knickers before propping her elbows on his transfigured coat.

"Just make it quick," she snapped, not looking at him.

He exhaled loudly through his nose. Then silence.

She was beyond reasoning. He could see that. No matter how this was dressed up, she was clearly unwilling. She was a virgin for Merlin's sake. But unfortunately at this point there were few, if any, other options available.

If he did what she wanted him to do, he would hurt her—badly. But she didn't want to be touched. He could understand her reticence to engage any more than necessary, but he would need to at least touch her if either of them were going to get anywhere.

Moving around the desk to stand behind her, he reached down and placed his fingertips against her bare thigh before tracing them lightly upwards. Her entire body tensed.

He rested his hand gently on her hip. It was going to be very difficult to do anything with her like this—but he definitely wouldn't be making the mistake of asking her to 'relax' again.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione had her head bent over her forearms, bracing herself for impact.

"Mmm," she grunted.

"Do you, perhaps, have a memory of a place? Somewhere peaceful. Not necessarily a favourite but somewhere you felt . . . comfortable?"

She didn't respond.

His words continued to roll slowly off his tongue. "Can I ask that you take yourself to that place now? Imagine standing there, listening to the sounds you heard in the past. Perhaps a light breeze is blowing, perhaps you are warm. Think about how your body felt there, how you were breathing, the sensations on your skin."

He allowed a few moments for his words to sink in and then started.

This time he reached down and placed both hands on the outsides of her thighs, tracing them gradually upwards before sliding them around to the front and allowing his thumbs to curl around her inner thigh. She stiffened again, but this time the tension rose and subsided like a wave.

Her hips were practically welded to the desk, so he skimmed his hands up her sides before sliding them around the front of her shirt to cup both breasts. Her head tilted forward but she didn't rebuff him so he proceeded to trace his thumbs lightly over both nipples. He felt them firm after only a few passes. Perhaps there was hope yet. Grasping each one gently between his thumbs and index fingers, he rolled and tugged until he heard a soft moan.

Drawing one finger down the front of her shirt, he Wandlessly released the buttons before uncoupling the clasp at the front of her bra. Now her breasts hung freely and he was able to feel their weight, the pebbles of her nipples tickling the centre of each palm.

And that's when he felt it. A bold surge of blood shooting forth to infuse his cock. He sighed. Sufficiently preparing Miss Granger hadn't been his only concern. The circumstances surrounding the decree were as unerotic as he could possibly imagine. He'd been unsure of whether he would even be able to perform as required.

But as he explored her firm mounds with his fingers, their warmth radiating into him, the aroused peaks of her nipples further stiffening under his fingertips, he had to admit that, as far as choices went, the Order could have done worse than Miss Granger. The feeling clearly wasn't mutual but she was responding to his touch and that's as much as he could ask for.

The rasp of her shallow breaths and her thudding heartbeat beneath his palm assured him that they'd made progress. He only hoped that it extended to the place that it was required most. Withdrawing with some reluctance from her breasts, he leaned back and slipped his fingers under the waistline of her knickers.

She curled her head forward then, and made a small noise that sounded like "Ghhh." But there was no more, so he continued. Quickly, he peeled her knickers down over her hips before removing them with a seam-splitting spell and shoving them into the pocket of his trousers. It seemed like a better idea that tossing them nonchalantly aside—this definitely wasn't a time for nonchalance of any sort.

Rubbing his hands over the smooth globes of her cheeks, he made the mistake of glancing down, seeing his fingers curling into her pliant flesh. He immediately felt himself turn hard. He'd seen a variety of arses in his time but hers was incredible—like a smooth, round peach, taut and firm and creamy and . . .

 _Shit._ He needed to be careful. She was here in service to the Order. A sexual service, but a service nonetheless. There was to be nothing more he admonished himself, as he gradually released her buttocks from his grasp.

Drawing a steadying breath, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He slipped between her legs, gliding a finger along the seam of her lips. And finally felt himself relax. She was wet. Not flooding, but well on the way. He was confident that his final plan would get her to where she needed to be.

"I would ask that you lie on the desk now please, Miss Granger."

She lifted her head but didn't turn to look at him. "Why?"

"So that I can . . ." He cleared his throat. "So that I may assist you to . . . further . . ."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm staying right here. Just use your hands or something."

"Or . . . something?"

"Use your hands."

It would have to do.

"Would you . . . could you possibly . . . broaden your stance?"

Hermione huffed and slid her feet outwards.

He leaned down and proceeded to carefully slide his hand into her from behind. Exploring forward, he found the swollen nub of her clitoris, nudging and jostling it with his fingertips until he heard that ragged breathing again. Then he slipped back and dipped his fingers into her opening, sliding the lubrication around before returning to stimulate her clitoris. She was rocking ever so slightly into his palm—another promising sign.

He would have preferred not to take her from behind, he had less control over the depth of penetration but it seemed she wouldn't have it any other way.

Withdrawing his hand, he proceeded to undo his fly with a sweep of his fingers and reached in to release his straining cock. Delivering a few firm strokes to distribute the blood that had pooled with its uncomfortable constriction against the seam of his trousers, he realised he was going to have to lift her a bit to get her to the right height.

"Miss Granger."

She sighed before responding. "Yes."

"I'm going to . . . enter you now. It might hurt a—"

"I'm aware."

"And . . . I might have to lift you up a fraction."

"I don't care," she replied sharply.

He raised his eyebrows, before giving a brief nod for his own benefit. She clearly wasn't planning to make any of this easy for him.

Hooking one arm under her pelvis, he tilted her, using the other to glide the head of his cock between her folds, coating it in arousal. Placing his bulbous helmet at the small cleft of her entrance, he tamped down all of the misgivings that his conscience was currently hurling at him. Neither of them wanted this. They were both victims. It just felt like a slightly disingenuous claim as he watched his precum dribbling enthusiastically into her slot.

 _You have no choice. Just fucking do it!_

Maintaining his grasp on the base of his member, he pushed into her a small distance, feeling her buttocks and thighs stiffen in response. He halted until he felt her relax, then resumed. Despite the considerable resistance, he nudged into her, a fraction at a time, withdrawing when he heard her rapid inhalations. Then he'd begin again, pushing and stretching her until he felt himself pass through the constriction and enter her slick channel.

She hadn't been particularly vocal but he noticed that she'd buried her face in her crook of her arm, and suspected she was covering her discomfort. He continued to take his time, using his hand to assist each instroke against what was still an incredibly tight fit. Eventually he was able to remove his hand and began thrusting in deeper on each incursion. At some point he realised that he was almost completely buried within her and the sensation of being clamped inside her hot, wet sheath, began to feel decidedly sublime.

Slipping his hand around the front of her hip, he felt around for her clitoris. He'd only just begun massaging it when her fingers descended upon his, yanking them away.

"Don't," she growled at him from under her armpit.

He wasn't in any space to argue and so returned his hands to her hips, lifting her a little higher before plunging in more emphatically. Her mouth closed around her fist but he could still hear her stifled moans as he thrust into her.

The coil of tension began to wind deep inside him, driving him to pump even harder until he was slapping rhythmically against her backside.

"Fuck!" she hissed but he was too close to stop.

A dying moan escaped him as his balls exploded, his seed shooting into her. And the effects of the enchantment suddenly made itself known, a jolt of electricity fizzing through his member, indicating that it had been fulfilled. The sensation of both were such a relief that he found himself rubbing her, massaging her hips and buttocks as the final twitches spasmed through his cock.

Which is why he was so shocked when she suddenly thrust herself backwards, almost knocking him over before lunging away, clutching her shirt together around her heaving chest. Her face was tear-stained and her lips trembling.

"Tell Professor Dumbledore the enchantment has been 'fulfilled'." Her voice was raw and guttural.

Then she turned and quickly strode toward the door.

"Miss Granger," Snape called urgently.

She didn't stop until she'd grasped the handle, finally turning to glare at him.

"You need to take a contraceptive potion." He held the bottle in his hand.

"I thought it was supposed to be 'unprotected' intercourse," she sneered, gripping the front of her shirt with white-knuckled fists.

"As long as it's out of your system before next time."

"Next time?" She shook her head in disgust. "I can't fucking wait. Owl it to me," she snarled. And was gone.


	4. The Wrong Order

A/N: Just a quick little chappie to keep things rolling along :) And I've loved all of the discussion around this fic. It percolates in my mind as I write and guides the evolution of the story so please keep it coming. DSx

* * *

Hermione couldn't get out of bed. Her mind was churning so heavily through her thoughts, drawing so much from her meagre energy reserves, that there was nothing left for her body from which she felt absolutely disconnected.

She'd slept. Despite the events of the evening, after a long, searingly hot shower she'd managed to let go and allow herself to drift off.

Now she was just a mind—wrapped in a quilt. Ticking away furiously. Trying to understand. She'd realised as she'd flickered back and forth between memories, catching on certain images like an old film reel, that her unease wasn't entirely due to what had transpired in the Potions classroom. It had started with the meeting in Dumbledore's office. Something had been niggling at her, tugging like a trapped insect at the back of her mind, but it was only just now that she'd figured out what it was.

This wasn't the first week. Dumbledore had mentioned that one of Voldemort's supporters had been killed the week before for not 'complying'. That meant that the Muggle decree must have been in place for at least two weeks, if not longer. _How had Snape managed before now?_ He must have found someone else—another option. So the suggestion that she was the 'only solution' was clearly false.

That realisation—the sense that she hadn't been told the entire story, or that she may have even been deliberately misled—only intensified her anger at the Order. For an organisation that claimed to unite and protect its members, they consistently managed to pursue an agenda that ended up ensuring that people were used. The 'choice' that she'd been presented with was really nothing of the sort. No one had ever gone against the Order's wishes. That was the whole point—being a member signified that you were willing to sacrifice yourself for the greater good—and she certainly wasn't the only one who had become a martyr for the cause. Snape, himself, risked his life on a daily basis.

Indeed, she wasn't angry at Snape for that—for the unenviably difficult position that he was in. She understood. But she was angry at him for not standing up to Dumbledore. She didn't pretend to know the complexities of their relationship, but for a man who seemed to take great pleasure in belittling and denigrating students—children—he seemed quite incapable of asserting himself sufficiently to remove himself from Dumbledore's service, and from the unreasonable expectations of the Order.

She was also angry at Snape for trying to make her come. This decree and the enchantment that enforced it were akin to the medieval Droit du Seigneur—the right of men with title to have sex with subordinate women. And that's how Muggles were treated by many in the Wizarding community—as inferior, even subhuman. The decree mandated rape. _And she was expected to be all joyfully orgasmic about it?_ _To dignify its abominable intent with pleasure? How could he have expected her to mark such an occasion with a fucking guilt-free orgasm?_

Rolling over, she buried her face in her pillow. She still felt sick, nauseated by the sense of having engaged in something sordid and improper.

 _Snape._ She knew virtually nothing about him. And yet she'd seen him practically every day for the past 6 years—observed his inscrutable features more often than she had her own father's. But he'd been a perpetually cold and detached figure, hovering at the fringes of her consciousness—an awareness born primarily from self-preservation as he was, more often than not, likely to lash out, abusing or demeaning them for some perceived misdemeanour.

And suddenly the healthy distance between them had disappeared, the buffer was gone—unceremoniously yanked away, causing them to collapse together with an intensity that she would never have wanted. They were student and teacher, practically two strangers, but she'd been forced, with virtually no preparation, to allow him to press his body against hers, into hers, to allow the type of invasion she wouldn't allow anyone else, even the people she was closest to.

And the truth was that she didn't even like him. She might respect him as a teacher but that was entirely intellectual, a student's appreciation of her Professor—of his superior knowledge and skilled tuition. But she wouldn't describe him as a 'nice' person. He'd never said anything kind to her. Or even smiled in the six years she had known him—ever. Having someone like that, old enough to be her father, taking her virginity with no opportunity for even a civil pre-fuck chat was gut-wrenching. And even though he didn't hurt her, what she felt with his hands on her was somehow worse, it felt so wrong to have her body responding as it did, to someone she had absolutely no emotional connection with.

And he'd come inside her and she'd had to feel it oozing out of her as she tried to hurry back to her room. A warm discharge. Like it was her own—something from her own body. But it wasn't. Just a foreign deposit for her to deal with—to attempt to remove all evidence of.

And this was what she had to look forward to. Week after week for Merlin knew how long. A receptacle for his ejaculate. _How couldn't she feel used? Disgusted?_

"Tap, tap."

She jerked up. There was an owl at the window, tapping insistently, waiting to get inside.

Rolling out of bed, she pulled her nightie down, smoothing it carefully over her body before moving across the room and opening the window.

The owl flapped inside, landing on her desk so that she could untie the small basket from its leg. Inside was a small bottle—the contraceptive potion. And a note—

 _Miss Granger,_

 _Please accept my apology._

Her throat was suddenly tight. That was the other troubling part. He'd hardly been predatory. He'd actually been gentle, almost tender, not at all what she'd expected. It had confused her more than if he'd been rough and callous. And it certainly didn't fit with the cold rigidity that typified every other interaction she'd had with him.

Perhaps he was switching on the charm because he needed her. Or maybe he genuinely felt remorseful. Certainly she'd never heard him apologise before.

Sighing, she closed the window before the owl could leave, then reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a scrap of parchment and quill.

* * *

Snape had been up for hours, but he was still agitated.

She'd been the wrong choice. And it was just as wrong of her to have agreed to do it. She utterly loathed him and was clearly unable to move past that.

It had been his concern from the start—her fiery disposition wasn't born of superficiality, it came from feeling deeply, and from a certain compulsive indignance that she'd always possessed. Not an optimal blend for a transaction that required the level of detachment that this one did.

He'd thought that if he could make the first time pleasurable for her, it would take the sting out—reduce her obvious abhorrence. But, upon reflection, he'd realised his mistake. Opening oneself up to pleasure required trust and she absolutely didn't trust him. And she didn't trust the Order—perhaps with good reason.

He would request an urgent meeting with Dumbledore. They had considered his predicament for weeks now and come up with very few options—at least none that didn't involve considerably greater risk for all involved. But from that moment onward she was no longer an option.

A flutter and scrape signified the return of his owl, now perched on the open windowsill, fluffing its feathers, a roll of parchment clutched in its claws.

He strode over and claimed the note, quickly unfurling it.

 _Professor._

 _Thank you for the potion._

 _I'd like an opportunity to speak with you._

 _I'll be in Madam Puddifoot's at 2pm today._

 _Hermione._

He read the words over twice more before folding the parchment in half and sliding it into his pocket.

And that's when he found them. Dragging his hand out, he discovered that he was still in possession of her knickers—soft pink in colour, smooth and satiny between his fingers. But the problem was the scent. He had impeccable olfaction and they smelled of her, even from this distance. It had been one of the first things he'd noticed the previous evening—her hair smelled of vanilla and peach, her skin of bergamot and infusing both now was the sweet, musky smell of her arousal. It was inexplicable under the circumstances but he instantly felt himself stir. He quickly screwed up his fist to stifle the wafting assault—all of this was a hiding to nothing—in so many ways.

He considered returning her knickers via owl but realised that it would come across as further evidence of impropriety. Sighing, he tossed them into the top drawer of his bureau. He'd cancel his plans for the afternoon. Although their previous exchanges hadn't progressed particularly well, he did at least owe her the opportunity to discuss what had happened.

But it wasn't without risk. They couldn't afford to be seen merely 'chatting' together so he would take a text and meet her under the guise of tuition. At least that was something they both knew how to do well.


	5. The Order of Things

A/N: Okay, so I'm heading off on holidays in a few days and won't be writing while I'm away. It might be a little while before I get the next chapter up. Please hang in there. Lots more twists and turns to come. DSx

* * *

Hermione had only just ordered a pot of tea when Snape entered Madam Puddifoot's, a blast of icy wind accompanying his arrival. She watched as he quietly closed the door, standing tall and poised as his black gaze swept across the room.

After rapidly surveying the other patrons, mostly couples, he approached and, without a word, pulled out the chair opposite her, sitting before drawing a book from the recesses of his frock coat and placing it on the table between them. It was a pristine copy of their Advanced Potion-Making text. A brief flick of his wrist and a few muttered words later, she recognised the change in acoustics that signified that they were under a silencing incantation.

He was being extremely careful. Clearly the danger of being seen together was very real. It was not something she'd given a lot of consideration to—perhaps she should have. Nevertheless, they were together now—and she needed some answers.

"Thank you for coming, Professor." She addressed him directly. Despite the awkwardness of their previous interaction, she was determined not to be diverted from her purpose.

He inclined his head briefly in response, his expression revealing nothing.

"I have some questions that I hoped you might be able to answer."

"Indeed." His tone and brevity indicated that he wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

"I've already ordered a pot of tea and some house cakes. Is there anything else you—"

He gave a swift horizontal flick of his hand, indicating 'no.'

Hermione drew in a steadying breath. Her heart was racing. She firmly believed that she deserved answers to her questions but the air between them was already heavy with the tension of what had transpired the previous evening. There was no denying it, this was awkward.

"Professor, can you tell me how long the Muggle decree has been in effect?" she asked, managing to infuse her voice with an air of calm that she didn't feel.

He paused, obviously considering his response and how much he should be telling her. And when he looked at her, studying her face, she noted that it wasn't with the irritable sneer with which he normally regarded her. His current expression was one of caution but she felt that he was addressing her as an adult. She relaxed a little in this knowledge.

"Three weeks," he stated, leaning forward to pick up the book and opening it to a page in the middle. "Today is the beginning of the fourth week." He turned the book to face her.

Glancing down at the open page, a temporary blindness potion recipe, she returned her scrutiny to his deadpan face before shaking her head in confusion.

Snape's lips barely moved as he responded. "You have chosen a most inappropriate location to meet given the current circumstances. You will behave as though I am tutoring you."

Before she could stop herself, her eyes had flickered up to see if the other patrons were watching them.

"The book," he ordered, his voice a low growl.

Nodding slowly as though she were considering his words, she pretended to read the page.

Without looking at him, she spoke. "Three weeks. That means that you must have found an alternative means of satisfying the enchantment, prior to our—"

"Thank you."

Hermione's head jerked up, only to discover that their tea had arrived. Snape had obviously rapidly reversed the silencing incantation to address the waitress as she set about moving the teapot, milk, cups and sugar to the table from her tray before finally adding a plate of berry house cakes.

Hermione forced a smile as she departed and Snape reinstated the spell.

"Yes." He picked up the teapot and proceeded to fill both cups. "There were two other occasions."

"With two other women?"

He sighed. "Ob-viously." The syllables were drawn out, making it sound like two words.

Hermione let the unanswered question hang between them but when he added nothing further, she decided to press him.

"Who were they?"

"I hardly consider that to be any of your business," he replied tersely, glaring at her for a moment before proceeding to stir a spoonful of sugar into his tea and adding a dash of milk.

Hermione did the same.

"I want to know why you can't use the same approach to find other suitable women"

He sustained the glare from under heavily knitted brows as he took a sip of tea, before finally acquiescing.

"One was a friend—a school friend—from prior to Hogwarts. It was a chance meeting. Fortuitous. That option is now exhausted. The other was an arrangement by . . . another. It was less successful. I was forced to Obliviate."

His words were blunt, emotionless, but the few rapid blinks that followed told her that it had been somewhat traumatic.

"Dumbledore," Hermione muttered into her tea.

"I beg your pardon."

"It was Dumbledore who made the arrangement, wasn't it?"

Snape didn't answer, but his eyes shifted from hers as he sucked in another mouthful, and she knew that she was right.

"What about other Wizarding Orders? There must be someone with a similar background to myself? Have you looked into those?"

He returned the cup to its saucer. "There are a few potential candidates. But further risk is obviously introduced in taking this outside of the Order of the Phoenix. It was preferable to look for someone within the Order. And must I remind you that you _did_ agree?"

Hermione looked uncomfortable as she cast her eyes back down to the book. "No, you needn't remind me, Professor." She flipped over a few pages. "I just wondered whether you might be able to put a private ad in one of the Muggle newspapers looking for someone to . . . you know." Her eyes flickered up briefly and she felt herself warming. "Or whether you could pose as a . . . a male prostitute or something?"

"Both charming suggestions, no doubt derived from an intense concern for my predicament," he drawled, each word dripping with sarcasm. "However, it is the requirement for 'unprotected intercourse' that poses the greatest risk. And that can't always be guaranteed. Any hint of a contraceptive not only fails to fulfil the enchantment, it causes both individuals to experience such excruciating pain that it makes the Cruciatus feel like a mild twinge in comparison—targeted entirely to the genitals."

Hermione glanced up. She was reminded of the shivery electrical surge she'd felt inside her after he'd orgasmed, realising now that it must have been related to the enchantment.

"Not to mention the risk of both contracting and transmitting any number of infections," he finished.

"And I'm to assume that I'm not at similar risk?" she interjected.

"It is . . . unlikely." He took another large gulp of tea, his Adam's Apple bobbing in what she perceived to be discomfort.

 _A bit fucking late now_. They'd known that he'd had unprotected sex recently with at least two other women and didn't bother to tell her. She felt her anger rising again.

"And what about the other risks that you somehow failed to mention?" she demanded.

He quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I know what you mean?"

"Draco Malfoy?"

His tea cup halted mid-way to his lips before he slowly returned it to the saucer.

"What of him?"

"He suggested that I was going to become ' _very_ popular, _very_ soon'."

Snape's jaw tightened.

"It was a threat wasn't it? He was talking about the decree." Hermione leaned towards him as he simultaneously leaned back.

"I don't pretend to know Mr Malfoy's mind. But it is . . . possible."

Hermione's eyes widened. "And why did no one see fit to bring this up in our meeting? The fact that I'm now a target?"

"Because," he huffed, focusing on his tea cup, "it was hoped that our . . . arrangement . . . would enable me to keep a closer eye on your whereabouts—to intervene if required. We didn't wish to alarm you unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily?" Hermione's voice rose. "So I'd be safe for the fifteen minutes that we were . . . engaged. And the rest of the time vulnerable to some horrifying sex attack whilst being completely unprepared for it?"

Snape's eyes flickered to the couple chatting happily at the closest table. They were clearly unaware of the storm brewing alongside them.

"There was no reason to suspect that Mr Malfoy would be foolish enough to attempt anything within the Hogwarts grounds."

"So I should never leave?" Hermione could feel her face burning. "Am I at risk even here? Have I been discussed?" She suddenly thumped her hand at the point on the table where his eyes were focused. "Tell me!"

Snape finally looked her in the eye and she felt her scalp prickling with the gravity of his words. "Yes. They are aware of your status."

"But why would they care?" Hermione was scrabbling for traction. "They're Death Eaters? They're hardly paragons of morality. Why don't they just do as the decree requires?"

"There are further . . . constraints, imposed by the enchantment." Snape shifted uncomfortably in his seat, making Hermione wonder exactly what other physical manifestations there might be.

"Such as?"

His lips thinned into a grim line.

"I deserve to know the details of the enchantment if I'm at risk." She sensed that he was getting close to clamming up altogether. "And I refuse to consider any further involvement unless you tell me exactly what it entails."

His eyes narrowed. She waited as he picked up the teaspoon and rolled it around in his fingers before finally dropping it and clasping his hands on the table before him.

"If someone who is afflicted . . . ejaculates . . . at any time, apart from when the enchantment is fulfilled, they'll experience the same unbearable pain as indicated previously."

Hermione's brow crumpled as the meaning of his words sank in.

"So they can't have sex with anyone apart from Muggles? Or even . . . masturbate?"

He gave a brief shake of his head.

"I'm guessing that those in relationships are feeling a lot of pressure? People like Lucius Malfoy?"

Snape cleared his throat. "Amongst others."

"And this is to make them even more desperate? More aggressive?"

"Something like that."

They sat in silence. Hermione flicked a few more pages of the text as her mind churned through their conversation. She was beginning to see why she was of such interest. A safe and reliable option, clean, risk-free—apart, of course, from the fact that she would hex their fucking balls off if they came anywhere near her. Then she was struck by a thought.

"It's quite remarkable isn't it?" Her words rolled out slowly.

"What is?" He huffed impatiently through his nose.

"The enchantment. It's quite . . . brilliant. It seems to have been designed to cover every single possible requirement—it identifies Muggles, detects contraception, ensures a different woman every week, delivers a horrendous punishment for those that seek relief elsewhere."

"I assume that you're being deliberately cryptic," he muttered snidely.

"It's yours isn't it?" Hermione lifted her gaze to his.

"I really don't have time—"

"You created the enchantment," she interrupted, closing the book with a flick of her fingers.

He delivered a disparaging sneer. "You've always been supremely enamoured with your own intellect. But, I'm afraid, on this occasion you happen to have missed . . . the mark."

"Who else could have done it?" She continued, growing in her conviction. "Who is meticulous enough to have considered every element, designed it to perfection? Perhaps even brewed all of the elements? Apart, of course, from Dumbledore himself?"

Snape jerked his head away in rebuttal but he continued to look decidedly uncomfortable.

"Did you think you'd be spared?" Her voice took on a hard edge, matching the dark steely look in his eyes. "Did you think that if you created it, you could avoid it? Were you really that naïve?"

He could see a thick vein pulsing in his temple, the whites of his eyes visible as he seethed, his entire body coiled with tension, ready to explode.

"Who else knows that you did it?" she persisted, unperturbed. "Dumbledore? Is that why he doesn't want anyone else involved—why he's avoiding pursuing people from other Orders? In case it gets traced back to you? In case they realise that someone who is supposed to be operating to protect Muggles is responsible for ensuring their decimation."

"That is _NOT_ the case!" He growled, his lips peeling back from his teeth in an ugly snarl.

 _He'd fucked up._ No wonder he'd been so unusually contrite. It was his fault. He was responsible. And Dumbledore was pushing this so hard because there was way too much risk in going outside of the Order. He needed her. They all needed her.

"You are no longer needed." Snape's voice was low and hard as he grabbed the book.

"Wait!" She slammed her hand down upon his.

She was absolutely needed. Snape had so few options and certainly none without far greater risk. And anything that happened to Snape would instantly put Harry in danger. Not to mention the fact that she had an enormous target on her own head.

"You will tutor me."

His mouth curled into a sneer. "On what? Respect? On giving appropriate acknowledgement to those who work on a daily basis to ensure your safety?"

She ignored him. "We will meet regularly, but at different times. And it won't be secretive. I want people to see that we're spending time together—it will make them more cautious about targeting me if that's what they have planned. And, in return, I will assist you. I'll . . . fulfil the enchantment."

He was furious. But she also knew he had little choice. Snatching his hand out from under hers, he stood and peered down his nose in contempt. He was gearing up for a final attack, she could feel it.

"And I want you to understand that this is entirely a business arrangement. There is nothing sexual about it, whatsoever." She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.

The intensity of his glare stung but she didn't waver. With a downward slash of his arm, he removed the silencing incantation.

"I hold out little hope for your future, Miss Granger, if you continue to pursue your studies with such blatant disregard for the Order . . . of . . . things."

The other couples turned to look at them with sudden interest.

She picked up a house cake and took a large bite, letting crumbs tumble down her chin as she continued to hold his gaze.

She knew a threat when she heard it. But she had moved beyond intimidation. This was war, after all.

With a spiteful hiss, he turned and strode out of the shop.


	6. Back Order

A/N: So it turns out I had enough time to get another one up before heading off. Hope you enjoy it. ;) DSx

* * *

"Let's make this quick." Snape sat down abruptly in the chair next to her before crossing his arms, his mouth clamped in a firm, disapproving line.

He was obviously in a foul mood. At least it was the Snape she knew.

Hermione snapped a book off the top of the pile beside her and flicked it open before shoving it in front of him.

"You might at least pretend to be engaged," she muttered, glancing around the library which wasn't particularly busy but she sensed that many of the students were surreptitiously watching them.

 _Good_. The more that word got out that she and Snape were catching up outside of classes, the safer she'd feel in terms of discouraging anyone who would wish to harm her. Snape was formidable. Everyone knew it. So she was happy with that part of the arrangement.

The part she was less happy about was the fact that he wasn't doing a particularly good job of holding up his end of the bargain, now examining his nails in an obvious attempt to ignore her.

She turned to him and leaned forward until the gap between them was mere inches. "If you expect me to willingly assist you to adhere to the conditions of the enchantment," she murmured, sliding a piece of parchment between them and tracing her finger across it as though posing a question. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that."

Snape huffed before shoving the fingernails he'd been inspecting back under his armpit.

"What would you have us talk about?" He slipped the words through barely parted lips, still refusing to look at her.

"Polyjuice."

He looked at her then.

"For what reason?"

"For the sake of changing my identity. Isn't that what I'm supposed to be doing?"

He shook his head. "Not necessary."

"What do you mean, 'not necessary'? How else will I satisfy the enchantment?"

"Histomalleus."

"Histo?"

"Tissues."

"Tissue manipulation?" Hermione could feel her throat tightening with indignation. "So now I'm supposed to manipulate my tissues, is that it?"

Another bloody ridiculous caveat. Every time she thought she'd managed to mentally prepare herself for what was to come, something else was thrown into the mix. _How many other bizarre details about the enchantment had they failed to reveal?_ She'd never cast Histomalleus in her life. In fact, she'd never even heard of it.

"If it's just a matter of altering tissues, why can't I just use 'Engorgio' or 'Reducio'?"

"They are swelling and shrinking spells." Snape enunciated each word as though she was thick.

"I know what they are," she bit back.

Snape inclined his head in a patronising manner that made her want to slap him.

"The enchantment senses bodily features as its primary method of determining identity. Engorgio and Reducio change the fluid portion of the tissue but the cellular structure remains the same. Histomalleus alters the cellular structure. That's what the enchantment is designed to detect."

"Really?" She sat back in her seat, a look of pretend awe on her face. "Another astonishingly brilliant design feature. It's almost as though the enchantment was created by someone with an intimate knowledge of cell and tissue biology. Maybe . . . I don't know . . . a teacher or . . . even a Professor?"

He snorted and jerked his head away in irritation. "Are we done here?"

"Fascinating," she continued, as she pretended to scan the book in front of him. She was still extremely annoyed that he hadn't admitted to his involvement in creating the enchantment and she intended to make him as uncomfortable about it as possible.

"Well, if you're done with mocking one of the most serious blights on both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds, alike, I'll be on my way." He pushed his chair back from the table.

"What about the spell?" Hermione demanded.

Sighing, he raised a hand and beckoned his index finger at the pile of books beside her. Instantly the third book from the bottom was ejected, landing directly in front of her as the rest fell back into a neat stack.

"Page two hundred and twelve." He indicated with his head.

 _He couldn't know the contents of the entire book including page numbers? Could he?_

Hermione just couldn't resist. Snatching it up, she quickly flicked to page two hundred and twelve to find the word 'Histomalleus' printed at the top of the page. She nonchalantly tossed it back onto the table as he regarded her with a bored, 'told you so' expression.

"I suppose I'll have to use up some of my valuable study time learning it," she huffed.

"You'll survive." She heard him mutter as he turned away from her.

"Which begs the question why you can't simply cast it yourself." She stared at the back of his head until he swivelled around to face her with a loud exhalation.

"Another feature of the enchantment," he drawled, "is that it detects the magical trace left by the caster of an incantation. Any indication that someone's identity has been magically altered by another will be known. If you, yourself, cast the spell, there is nothing to detect."

 _Of course. Another fucking feature_. Hermione was so exasperated, she found she couldn't even be bothered throwing it back at him.

"So when is our next joyous engagement set to occur?" she asked instead, dragging the piece of parchment to herself and picking up her quill.

"Friday."

She looked up. "On the last possible day to fulfil the enchantment—again?"

"That is most convenient."

 _Really? For whom?_ Still, she would need the extra time to mentally prepare herself. And to learn that fucking spell. Carefully, she wrote the day and date at the top of the parchment.

When she looked up again, Snape was peering down his nose at her.

"This isn't an assignment."

"Well, actually, for me it is," Hermione snapped. "What time?"

He rolled his eyes. "Whenever you can manage to fit it into your extremely busy schedule, I imagine."

"After dinner. 8pm."

"Done." He rose.

"Where?"

"My quarters."

She looked uneasily up at him. "Why?"

"Practicability. Comfort."

She couldn't deny that leaning on the desk and being lifted to accommodate the height differential had severely bruised her elbows.

"Fine."

"Fine."

She watched as he stalked away before tossing the quill down onto the parchment. They were such a terrible match—effortlessly bringing out the worst in each other. Friday was unlikely to be physically painful, she knew that, but she was less confident about the psychological and emotional toll. She would be in survival mode. He would just have to put up with it.

* * *

"Knight to C5."

Ron was lounging back in one of the common room chairs as Harry leaned over the chess board, clearly taking the game more seriously than the redhead who had his Quidditch helmet in his lap and appeared to be rubbing some sort of lotion into the leather.

"Oh, look who's here," Ron announced sarcastically as Hermione staggered in the door, arms laden with books. "Where have you been?"

"In the library—studying."

"Is that what you call it," he muttered, continuing to rub vigorously with a grubby cloth.

Hermione was exhausted and not in the mood for snide remarks of any sort.

"I was being tutored by Professor Snape if you must know," she snapped, dumping the books on the ground by his chair before sliding her backside onto the arm.

Ron and Harry exchanged glances.

"Yeah, we heard," Harry replied. "Queen to E3."

There was a moment of silence before Hermione decided to address the issue head-on.

"He's kindly offered to help me prepare for my N.E. ." She looked between the two of them.

"Well, you need all the help you can get," agreed Ron. "I mean, you're only just scraping by. No wonder he was so keen to help."

"Some of us actually care about our grades." She tossed her hair out of her face. "No doubt polishing Quidditch gear is going to hold you in good stead for when you leave this place."

Ron started rubbing even harder. "Too right. I'll be the shiniest Keeper in Britain."

"And it's good wanking practice," Harry pointed out.

"Yeah, but I get plenty of that already."

"Charming," Hermione huffed.

Ron lifted his chin to look at the board. "Pawn to B6. But honestly 'Mione, Snape? I wouldn't spend five minutes with him. Even if he was the best Quidditch player in the world."

Hermione's brow creased. "That doesn't even make sense. And stop talking about bloody Quidditch will you."

"You can hardly blame us, 'Mione," Harry was scanning the board. "It was a bit of a shock. I mean, there must be a million better ways to spend your evening than with that old git."

"He's a teacher. He teaches. He knows more about Potions than anyone. Why is it so shocking for me to seek out his tuition?"

"Because he's a slimy bastard," Ron piped up. "I wouldn't trust him to even tell you the right things. It's not like he's ever wanted you to do well."

"He's not the enemy." Hermione heard a strange note of pleading in her voice.

"Are you sure about that?" Harry looked at her pointedly. "He's playing both sides, that's pretty obvious."

"But why would he? What would be the point?"

"Best of both worlds. He's playing them off against each other. He clearly gets off on torturing people—just look at all the detentions he gives out. And yet he looks like he's making some sort of noble sacrifice so he's protected by the Order, by Dumbledore."

Hermione regarded him doubtfully.

"He's hedging his bets in case things don't work out. Either way, he'll come out on top. Snape is all about Snape. Everything he does is to ensure his own survival, no matter what."

 _No matter what?_ To create something as heinous as the Muggle decree enchantment, with the hope of being spared, showed that he _was_ willing to do pretty well anything in the name of self-preservation. The other issue was that they were all simply taking his word on the nature of the enchantment. What guarantee was there that it was accurate and not contrived to further his own interests? _And could she even trust him to protect her?_ _Was she, in fact, being asked by the Order to sleep with their enemy?_

She stared at the chess board as one piece lopped the head off another. Friday now loomed even more ominously in her mind, like a dark storm gathering on the horizon.

* * *

 _She was so bloody fucking annoying_. He'd tried. He'd made every effort to be understanding—to empathise with her in what was clearly a less-than-ideal arrangement. But Merlin's fucking balls if she didn't make it impossibly difficult for him to feel anything other than intense irritation. She was rude, demanding, self-possessed and she might be clever but in was in a smug and annoyingly self-righteous way that was most unhelpful. It hadn't escaped him that there were, in fact, certain similarities between them, but that only served to aggravate him more.

The other major concern was that she had him by the balls. And she knew it. The truth was that he did need her. The conditions of the enchantment were so prohibitive that there were very few viable options available, and no others that didn't involve considerably greater risk. He would also do everything possible to avoid a repeat of the earlier debacle with Albus' 'acquaintance'—she'd refused to have unprotected sex and he'd ended up having to do it anyway. And Obliviate her. _Fuck_.

Snape stood rigidly by his bed. _What the fuck was he doing?_ _Preparing an official welcome?_ He'd had trouble occupying himself since dinner. The three of them, Granger, Weasley and Potter had been talking about him, he could feel it, sensing their less-than-subtle glances in his direction.

 _What had she told them?_ If she'd divulged any element of the decree, he would have to insist that Dumbledore take disciplinary action. It could put the Order at risk. It could even put that arrogant little shit, Harry Potter, at risk. But she wasn't beyond doing something so stupid. She was a Gryffindor after all.

"Hello?"

Hermione pushed the door open a little further.

"Anyone . . . home . . .?"

 _Oh, it was actually nice_. She stepped into the room, releasing the breath she'd been holding. A warm, welcoming fire was crackling and sparking in the grate, framed by a beautiful dark-wood mantle, plush Slytherin-green hearth rug and two elegant armchairs positioned either side. She could almost imagine—

"Would it be too much to expect you to knock?"

"I did knock!" She addressed the tall, angry figure standing in the far doorway. "Perhaps you're getting hard of hearing in your . . ." She tailed off, realising that it probably wasn't worth bringing up his age again this early in the proceedings.

He snorted disapprovingly before striding across the room to a lovely walnut cabinet. "Drink?"

 _How could she refuse such a charming host?_

"Why not."

He didn't bother to ask what she wanted but emerged moments later from behind the cabinet door with two glasses of red wine.

"Can I move now?" she asked as she took the glass from his hand.

"Yes," he huffed, gesturing to one of the chairs by the fire. "Perhaps, you would like to take a seat."

Her earlier vision had well and truly dissolved upon his arrival. She wouldn't be sitting in front of his fire.

"No, thank you." She spoke in the clipped tone that he seemed to naturally evoke. "I'd prefer to stand."

 _Of course she would_. He moved swiftly to the door behind her and closed it before walking around her to stand in front of the fire himself.

Taking a sip, she allowed her eyes to rove around the room. It was comfortable, stylish, not at all what she'd expected. She had imagined a man as grim as he to dwell in some sort of spartan cave surrounded by entrails in jars. There wasn't a single entrail in sight. But there were books. Hundreds of them, packed into the floor-to-ceiling shelves adorning two entire walls.

 _Friends_. That's how she'd always considered them. They'd been her friends throughout her life. She wondered if he felt the same. But when her eyes returned to his, he was regarding her like some sort of unwelcome caller that he was desperate to get rid of. Perhaps he had books instead of friends.

"I trust that you have kept the details of the Order's request and our 'arrangement' to yourself."

"Of course."

His expression didn't change. He didn't believe her. Too bad. She took another sip.

"Shall we get this over and done with, then?" he asked, eyes flicking to the mantle clock as though he had some other pressing engagement to attend.

"I'd like to finish my drink."

 _Fan-bloody-tastic_. Snape took a large mouthful of his, swilling it around a little in irritation before swallowing. She continued to stand in the middle of the room, ogling his life.

After five agonising minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional awkward gulp, she held the glass out to him. "Thank you, Professor."

Only just avoiding an eye-roll he took the glass from her fingers, returning both to the cabinet before drawing in a deep breath.

"Are you ready to accompany me to the adjoining room?"

 _That was slightly better_.

"Never moreso." She delivered a smile that was more sarcastic than genuine but since he never smiled at all, he was in no position to expect more.

She cautiously followed him.

And the bedroom was just . . . gorgeous. Not feminine but certainly luxurious. _What did he do in here?_ For someone who appeared to be all about the practical and functional, this was certainly far more decadent than expected.

And when her eyes returned to him she began to wonder if there were, in fact, two Snapes, or even multiples. She'd certainly seen another side of him in their previous encounter. But her main concern right now was figuring out which was the real Snape—the one toadying to that sick bastard, Voldemort? Or the one standing before her now . . . slowly . . . taking . . . off . . . his . . . coat.


	7. Peak Working Order

A/N: So I'm back after a lovely holiday in the sun. I missed you all but returned to the computer post haste to keep the chapters coming. Thank you again for those who have taken the time to leave feedback, you don't know how important it is to keep things ticking along. DSx

* * *

Hermione swallowed with difficulty. _Was she imagining it? That cloying sweetness in the back of her throat?_

"What was in that wine?" she suddenly demanded, her eyes narrowing as she reflexively slid her foot backwards.

He rolled his eyes. Her wand stance didn't concern him.

"That would be wine," he responded drily, continuing to unbutton his coat.

Something wasn't right. _Had she downed it too quickly? Had it gone straight to her head?_

Time seemed to stretch, each moment elongating like pulled toffee, sticky and sluggish, warping her senses. Small elements became magnified, bulging toward her until they appeared disproportionately large. Like his hands. His long fingers slid past one another as each button was released—the ripple so silky smooth that she had the impression of a deft sleight of hand. With each pass she felt that she was missing something. She stared. If she looked closely enough she would see it—she'd catch the deception.

"What is it now?" he huffed, fingers hovering over the final button.

There was nothing. She'd missed it—if it was ever there. But the doubt continued to needle her—a sense that everything wasn't as it appeared. Finally, she gave a small dismissive shake of her head.

His frown deepened until it was practically slicing his forehead in two before he flicked the final button undone and removed his coat.

Then his fingers started on his shirt.

"I . . . I'm not sure we've discussed the appropriate . . . dress code for this . . . occasion."

Hermione half turned away from him. She didn't want to watch him undress.

His voice was tight. "We will be in a bed. Under covers. A full complement of clothing is not conducive to achieving a satisfactory . . . outcome."

He was right. But she still didn't want to watch him undress. And she certainly didn't want him to watch her.

"I'll get in first," she announced.

The thought of him lying naked in bed waiting for her was just too much. The opposite scenario was only marginally better but it was . . . better.

"Would you mind turning around?"

His arms dropped to his sides.

"Please?"

He glared but he turned.

Quickly, Hermione undressed, leaving her clothes in a neat pile on a chair nearby. She threw glances at him every now and again, just to make sure.

"I'm not watching," he muttered.

 _What was that supposed to mean? Could he see her?_

She swept her gaze around the room, looking for any reflective surfaces that might have given her away. After a few passes, she came to the conclusion that he was just being an annoying bastard. But the incident with the wine had thrown her. She wasn't sure if she didn't trust him because of it, or if the distrust she already harboured had simply found something new to latch onto. Either way, she didn't appreciate him making her feel even more uneasy.

"I'm done."

She dove between the sheets of his expansive bed and rolled over to face the wall.

Silence. She was met by a stiff, prickling silence. _Was he undressing?_ He was so very quiet. There was nothing, not even the whisper of falling cloth. It took every ounce of her self-control not to peek back over her shoulder—although she wasn't confident that he'd afforded her the same privacy.

Clenching her jaw, she cinched the sheets even tighter around her neck. Despite her death grip, she could feel their softness between her fingers. They were almost satiny. _What man slept on sheets like these?_ _Had he put them on especially?_ She didn't know if the notion made her feel better or worse. Then the temptation to slither her bare legs around between them, as though slipping through luxuriously cool water, almost overwhelmed her. It was the wine. It was making her feel particularly . . . sensuous.

"Move over," he demanded gruffly.

She instantly lunged forward until she was wedged tightly under the tucked edge. Feeling movement behind her, she held her breath. He was in.

 _Now what?_

"Did you learn the incantation?"

Dragging her wand up from under the sheets she rolled awkwardly on the spot until she was facing him. Unlike her position in the bed, a baby turtle emerging head-first from a particularly constrictive shell, he was propped casually on one elbow, the bedding dipping over his solar plexus.

He was muscular. Surprisingly so. Not bulky but lean—pale blue veins cresting the surfaces on his arms making the muscles seem even more prominent. A smattering of fine hair extended from his collar bones down, forming darker ridges around the contours of his chest. Somehow, it made her feel even more anxious. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. 'Nothing' was probably the answer. She hadn't allowed herself to think about this moment at all, relegating it to a small black box in her mind with a 'do not investigate until you are absolutely bloody ready' sticker on it. Unfortunately, she'd never reached that point.

"Of course," she sniffed. She couldn't let him see how nervous she was.

He stared at her intently before raising a 'well, get on with it' eyebrow.

She had a few possible transformations in mind but the way she was feeling right now, there was only one that would give her what she needed. Protection.

Lifting the wand, she held the tip directly between her eyes before drawing it down the ridge of her nose.

"Histomalleus," she stated firmly and instantly felt the change. Her successful casting was also verified by his immediate and emphatic response.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

"What does it look like?" Her voice sounded deeper and more nasally. A little like—

"Can't you do something else?" he snapped irritably.

She raised a hand and felt along the bold ridge of her nose, tracing her fingers down to the curve at the tip.

"Why? Do you have a problem with big noses?"

She looked at him pointedly and he glared back, his cheeks flushing.

With a twist of his lips, he brought his arm out from under the covers and waved his hand, summoning a bottle from somewhere across the room before tossing it at her.

"What's this?"

"A lubrication potion."

She never took potions if she could avoid it. Even muggle medication she'd always kept to a minimum. And she still hadn't managed to shake her unease about the wine.

"I don't expect it will be required. I managed last time."

"Perhaps you'll recall that you had an issue with me touching you last time?" he replied tersely.

She hadn't forgotten. She still had an issue. But she wouldn't be taking the potion.

"Just . . . just do whatever's required to ensure that I don't need to take it."

He scowled, less than impressed. But she'd given him as much permission as she was prepared to give.

"Do you want me to do it from behind again or . . .?"

His lips clamped together. The words were obviously difficult. And she did feel for him. It was more than evident that he was completely uncomfortable with the situation. But he had a different agenda than she did—an entirely different motivation. They couldn't really be compared.

The truth was that she didn't want either option—she'd prefer him not to do her from any direction. But she recalled that he'd managed to stimulate her clitoris from behind the previous time. If he was on top of her, his hands wouldn't be able to get down there. It was a safer option.

"You can go . . . on top . . . of . . . me . . . with me . . . on my back . . . with you . . ."

"Fine," he interrupted abruptly.

She could see that his black eyes kept returning to her oversized nose. He was clearly disconcerted by it. _Well too bloody bad!_ If she was forced to transform herself for him, he would just have to put up with it.

"Well?" she looked at him expectantly.

"Can you possibly move a fraction closer?" he muttered.

Sighing, she reached behind herself, dropping the wand to the ground beside the bed before slithering towards him, keeping the sheets up around her throat.

She looked petrified—her eyes like saucers, so blatantly unwilling. And that fucking nose—it was utterly ridiculous. He could barely look at her.

He was suddenly in two minds about whether to even go through with it, paralysed by indecision. But then her hand closed upon his, locking two of his fingers in her small grasp before drawing him toward her, placing his fingers against her breast. She was so soft and warm. And responsive—her flesh immediately prickling under his touch.

He sighed heavily through his nose. Her brown eyes were still distrustful but there was a fierce determination burning within them. She was forcing herself. But so was he. He had only a few hours to satisfy the enchantment—a choice, literally, between life and death. And, despite the accusation that he saw in her, the disgust, the fear, he would choose life.

His hand closed around her breast and her eyes shuttered a fraction. It was obvious that she had virtually no prior sexual experience. He could use his fingers on her again. No doubt she would respond. But he'd have to look at her face throughout and the nose was really fucking off-putting. He also suspected that she would be averse to the intimacy of being watched.

So he made a decision. She'd invited him to 'do whatever is required' after all.

Sliding forwards, he lifted the bedding and slithered down until his mouth was level with the hand that was still on her breast. Despite the fact that her chest was rising and falling rapidly beneath his grasp, he managed to protract the nipple sufficiently to catch it with the tip of his tongue, once, twice, before lapping forward, swirling gently around the stiffening peak.

"Ohhh!" She gave a high pitched moan.

Then he opened his mouth and engulfed her entire areola, sucking with his lips and tongue as he trailed a hand down her abdomen.

Her breath stuttered out as her muscles twitched and shuddered beneath his palm. Skimming down, he burrowed his fingers into her pubic hair and with some gentle pressure, encouraged her to part her legs sufficiently for him to slip into her moist folds. As he started to lightly tickle her clitoris, her hips jolted and he felt her hand graze the back of his head. Then it was gone. She was clearly trying not to touch him. And finding it difficult.

For some reason this knowledge proved satisfying and so he tugged a little more forcefully at her nipple whilst massaging her clitoris. Then she was back, fingers curling into his hair as a groan emerged from deep within her chest.

Sliding one finger back he dipped into her opening, finding it already generously coated with her own lubrication. Perhaps she didn't require the potion after all. Sliding the finger deeper into her pussy, he brought his thumb up to roll around and over the head of her clitoris, using the same motion on her nipple with his tongue.

"Gods!" She released a muffled grunt.

She was dimly aware of her knuckles hurting. She must have bitten them. But that sensation paled into insignificance compared with what was happening between her legs. And what his mouth was doing to her breasts. He'd moved onto the other one and she was literally aching. The idea of aching without pain wasn't entirely foreign, she'd felt enough strong emotions in her life but this was purely physical and it was . . . excruciating.

She masturbated relatively infrequently. Usually when she was bored and had nothing to think about—which wasn't often. But she rarely paid her breasts any attention in the process, focusing entirely on her clitoris. Now she had suddenly discovered a superhighway of sensation between her nipples and the depths of her core that made it feel like a white-hot fuse was burning through her.

And then he was prodding there, at that spot inside her, as he pinged it from afar via her nipples. He was playing her. That's what it felt like. _How could he know more about her body than she did? It was hers after all._ She should know it better than anyone. Suddenly she felt quite irresponsible, overwhelmed by her own naiveté.

And she also felt like she wanted to come.

"Don't. Stop," she moaned.

 _Don't stop?_

"Just stop," she blurted.

He halted, finger still inside her.

"I . . . I must be ready by now. Can you just . . . do it?"

Releasing her breast from his mouth and sliding his finger out of her pussy, he emerged from beneath the blankets. His hair was mussed up and his face flushed, lips rouged and full, making him look younger somehow.

He didn't speak or even particularly look at her but then she felt him spread her legs with one hand, using the other elbow to prop himself over her. Moments later, he was at her entrance and this time he slipped in with such ease she realised she must be absolutely sopping. He still stretched her as he pushed but the sting at her strained margins was less than previous and he somehow seemed to be aware of her limits, stopping several times before rocking back into her.

By the time he was fully inside, she felt extremely full but not in an uncomfortable way. In fact, it was in a way that made her finally understand what the big deal was all about. Until then, she'd considered sex to be totally over-rated. Her friends had slept with people and she'd listened with derision as they'd recounted the details, feeling quite proud that she was above all that. A few sweaty minutes of flailing about for a few seconds of undignified convulsing didn't seem quite worth it.

But this was different. It felt . . . powerful—impacting her far more deeply than she'd expected, even extending beyond the physical. It wasn't something she wanted to feel with this man, her Professor, her teacher. But she figured it wasn't personal. It was just an understanding. A realisation that had suddenly struck her. Or perhaps it wasn't an understanding at all—simply the effects of the wine going to her head.

And what, she wondered, was he feeling? _Was it the same for him?_ He certainly couldn't feel as she did each time he plunged into her—he was the 'filler' not the 'fillee' after all. Perhaps it felt like being sucked. As her nipples had. The sensation of something pulling insistently at his cock, desperately trying to draw forth from him.

Then she wondered why she was wondering. Maybe she was really trying to work out how close he was to finishing, as things were becoming decidedly . . . difficult.

Despite the fact that he was nowhere near her clitoris, the tension was building again. Just the pure sensation of him thrusting into her, stretching her anew on each incursion had her suddenly holding her breath. It wasn't something she could think her way past—not in the way she'd hoped. She'd been desperate to remain principled throughout, to cling onto that fine thread of decency—out of respect for those who didn't have a choice.

"Can you . . ." She looked up to see that her hands were on his shoulders. _When had she done that?_ She quickly dropped them. "Can you possibly be a little less . . . stimulating?"

 _Less stimulating? That must be a fucking first for the bedroom._ He slowed down. But she was soon shaking her head.

"Less . . ." she gasped.

He stopped mid-thrust. _What was she expecting? A spontaneous ejaculation?_

Gradually her breathing normalised before she gave a small nod. He started again but it wasn't long before her fingers were clawing at the bedding.

"Could you be less . . . acute?"

 _Acute? What the fuck was she talking about? She was the most acute person he'd ever encountered. Acutely infuriating. Acutely ill-mannered._

"I assume you're referring to the angle?" he snapped.

"Yes . . . it just. It seems to be hitting me on the . . ." She groaned as he thrust into her again, squeezing her thighs tightly around him.

Sighing, he suddenly leaned back, not far enough to pull out of her but enough to lift one of her legs and push it over so that she was rolled onto her side, her legs pressed together with him still inside her. Placing one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip, he pushed her into the mattress as he resumed.

"That's actually not particularly comfortable." Her muffled voice drifted up from where her face was buried in the pillow.

"That's the intention," he replied. "You need a distraction."

It was certainly distracting, having to breathe between plunges. But the new angle wasn't much better.

"Why is it taking so long?"

"Because you keep telling me to stop," he hissed through gritted teeth.

She gripped the pillow tightly, hoping that it would help her to cling on. But with his weight pressed against her hip, forcing her legs closed, his cock was clamped so tightly inside her that she could feel everything—every contour, every ridge, and to make matters worse her clitoris was being mercilessly jostled inside the whole affair such that the discomfort was no longer a distraction.

"It's not working," she whimpered.

Dipping his chin, he focused. The sight of her entire body being jolted with each thrust, his hands forcing her back to meet him was surprisingly satisfying. Combined with the impossible tightness and slippery heat around his cock, it finally became enough . . . he was there.

"Uhhh," he grunted as his cock exploded.

"Stop!" she cried out.

He collapsed on top of her, pulling her to him, holding her there. His balls continued to contract, come surging into her but he remained still and so did she. Even as the fizz of electricity coursed through him, he lay there, breathing lightly into her hair.

It was a long time before she spoke,

"I'm sorry but I can't."

He pulled out and rolled away.

Neither could he.


	8. Out of Order

A/N: Hey guys, I've had a couple of questions about the meaning of the ending to the last chapter. Basically it was intended to be obscure, making it unclear whether they are finally on the same page, or whether they are continuing to miscommunicate and misunderstand. Hope that makes sense, DSx

* * *

Hermione closed the door gently behind her as she returned to the biting chill of the classroom. Both his lounge and bedroom had been toasty warm in comparison, generous fires still crackling within each. It was unfortunate, however, that the warmth hadn't extended to his dispassionate farewell.

Obviously keen for her to leave, he'd barely uttered a word from the moment he'd thrust himself up from the bed and strode swiftly to what she presumed was the bathroom, leaving her to get dressed alone. He'd returned to show her to the door, but offered only the briefest of nods when she suggested meeting for further tuition the following Tuesday. He didn't respond to her goodbye. Now she stood shivering with a cold vial of contraceptive potion in her fist, facing the long walk back to her room.

 _Could she really expect more?_ They'd had sex twice but the truth was that she still barely knew him. Sometimes it seemed as though they'd managed to break through, sharing some tenuous thread of understanding but most of the time it was clear that they were worlds apart. He'd respected her wishes not to come, and even assisted her to prevent it. But his displeasure was evident. The entire thing was awkward. She was awkward, she realised that. _But was it her job to make him feel better? Could she make him feel better?_

Whenever she thought about his predicament, his perspective, wondering how he must feel, she was met with blackness—a whole lot of nothing. She couldn't even visualise his life, his circumstances. If she trusted Harry's judgement, Snape was constantly plotting and manoeuvring to achieve the best possible outcome for himself, whilst satisfying some pretty sordid fetishes along the way.

And then there was the Order, who portrayed him as some sort of noble martyr, selflessly sacrificing himself for the cause. The real question was, 'why?' _Why would he put himself in such a position?_ If her own instincts were anywhere near accurate, he despised his predicament. _So why did he do it?_ _What was he getting out of it?_ _Was it intended as a punishment perhaps_ _—atonement for past wrongs?_ _Did he owe something to the Order? Or even to Dumbledore, himself?_

She realised then that until she saw him as something other than a representative of the business of the Order, she was going to have trouble interacting with him at all. They needed to talk . . . properly. But the dynamic surrounding their forced intimacy had been so combative, it was difficult to envisage circumstances under which they might suddenly engage in some sort of pleasant small-talk—there didn't seem to be any common ground whatsoever. Perhaps she would try to initiate something approximating a normal conversation when they met again on Tuesday. Although what 'normal' actually meant, especially in the current context, she was no longer sure.

Moving silently through the corridors, she clung to the shadowed walls in an effort to avoid being caught—although she was confident, especially now, that Dumbledore would ensure she was spared a reprimand.

Hurrying up a stone stairwell, a sudden clatter caused her to spin around. _Was she being followed?_

"Granger!" A voice hissed in her ear.

She shrieked, turning to find a strong arm barring her way.

A thin sliver of moonlight cut a luminous strip across one silvery eye and half the smirking mouth of her assailant.

"Malfoy," she spat, her heart hammering. "Get out of my way."

"Or what?"

"Just get out of my fucking way." She thumped a fist into the crook of his arm.

He snatched her hand and squeezed it tightly in his fist.

"Now that's not very nice is it? I only wanted to pass on an invitation."

"For what? Are you finally leaving?"

"As a matter of fact I am." His lip curled. "But just for this evening. I hoped you'd join me?"

"Hah!" she barked in his face. "Since when were you given permission to leave the castle at night?"

"Since my _father_ arranged for me to help in his club. Every Friday night we hold an exclusive gathering. Only special guests allowed. V . . . I . . . P's." He spat the last letter against her cheek.

She shuffled her foot backwards until she felt the edge of the stair.

"Suddenly I'm a VIP, am I?" she sneered.

"Oh yes," he breathed, a lascivious glint in his eye. "You're hot property."

 _Fucking bastard_.

Lightning fast, she whipped out her wand and jammed it into his groin. "Let me pass now. Or you lose these."

His mouth dropped open in shock before contorting into a snarl. "You're in no position to threaten me, Mudblood. You haven't a clue what you're up against. It's only a matter of time before you get what's coming to you . . . more times than you can fucking count."

Dropping his hand down from the wall, he reached forward and gratuitously ran his hand up her leg, giving her inner thigh a painful squeeze before pushing roughly past. And as his footfalls echoed off the stone steps, she found herself clinging to the cold wall, contraceptive potion in hand—unable to move forward and unable to go back.

* * *

She must have felt it too.

Passing his practised nostrils over the open bottle, he inhaled deeply. Nothing. Undetectable. And yet it was clearly tainted. Most likely poison. He'd imbued all of his glassware, crockery and cutlery with powdered Bezoar to protect himself, his natural distrust having saved his life on more than one occasion.

But the detoxification this time had been incomplete. He'd experienced it as a vaguely warped perception. She was obviously more severely affected—no doubt a result of the fact that she'd guzzled a whole glass, combined with her far slighter build.

It was an extremely risky manoeuvre to deliver a poisoned bottle of wine to a Potions Master. Only someone extraordinarily arrogant would attempt such a thing—indeed he remembered the smirk on Lucius Malfoy's face when he'd turned up unannounced and dropped this particular bottle into his lap.

The blond wizard had a habit of doing such things—irritating Snape no-end—and of demanding Snape's best Firewhisky instead of his own plonk, that there had been no particular reason to be suspicious.

But Malfoy was also very much aware that the only person Snape would share a drink with was Dumbledore. No doubt they'd seen it as a perfect opportunity to remove the great wizard once and for all. And Snape didn't flatter himself that his own demise would constitute anything other than a useful byproduct.

Yet this evening he'd shared a drink with someone else. A person who had stood in defiance, demanding to be allowed to finish it. This evening, without his precautions, Miss Granger would have died.

* * *

"What are you saying, Severus?" Dumbledore turned from one of the cabinets in his office, a small glass pyramid hovering over his palm. "That Death Eaters are now targeting Hogwarts? That they're looking to infiltrate?"

"It has been implied, Headmaster." Snape placed the wine bottle on Dumbledore's desk. "There are indications that they are looking for a portal of entry."

Dumbledore gazed down at the pyramid as it began to rotate, casting fans of rainbows across the walls. "And yet they also seek a passive invasion. Via . . . gifts?"

"I would not be the first to be distracted by such." Snape looked uneasily at Dumbledore's hand.

"Ah yes." Dumbledore held up his blackened fingers, more withered now than when Snape had attended to them only weeks previous. "None of us are immune to the lure of trinkets . . . or, indeed, the more insidious enticement of flattery."

Dumbledore snatched the pyramid out of the air before fixing Snape with his piercing gaze.

"How go things with Miss Granger?"

 _She nearly died_. For some reason he was incapable of relating that particular piece of information.

Instead, he made his way over to the window. "It has happened. On two occasions. That's all that can be said."

"A courageous young woman." Dumbledore nodded.

"She suspects my involvement."

Dumbledore grew quiet.

When he finally spoke, it was by Snape's side, without any indication of how he'd crossed the room.

"And you sought to dissuade her from such thoughts?"

Snape turned to him. "When was Miss Granger ever one to be 'dissuaded'?"

Dumbledore held his gaze. "Do not blame her. Others may have reached the same conclusion about the enchantment."

"Do you really believe that?"

Sighing, Dumbledore cast his eyes downward. "She was perhaps more likely. But she _is_ the best option. You know that yourself."

"From whose perspective?"

"You are also a victim in this, Severus, never forget that." Dumbledore's dying fingers wrapped around his arm.

"That's a terribly overused term, don't you think?" Snape remarked bitterly.

"We all have regrets." Dumbledore flexed his blackened claw. "It doesn't mean we are immoral. It simply means we are imperfect. Fallible. We are human."

"Fallibility I could live with," Severus muttered.

"And so you are going to have to live with this."

* * *

He was inside her again. He'd cancelled their tuition—a brief note by owl at the last moment. There'd been no conversation. No thawing. Just more of this. Him mechanically pumping into her. Her trying not to come.

He was taking her from behind again but she was still finding it difficult. She wasn't sure if was because of his size. He felt big but she really had nothing to compare it to. Or perhaps the sensations were so new to her that she had no way of mitigating against them. Either way, she could feel each new layer of tension being laid down, building and churning and pulling inside her. The muscles within her core were so tight it was almost painful.

She'd masturbated a number of times that week. Partly in an attempt to avoid this. But also because she'd left his rooms so aroused and dissatisfied the previous week that the agitation was making it difficult for her to focus on anything else, including her study.

She dropped her chin into her chest, squeezing her eyes closed as he sped up.

But it was too much. She was just too close.

"Stop. I'm going to come," she ground out.

"I'm close," he gasped.

She was closer.

Suddenly, her legs and arms gave way and she collapsed onto the bed just as she heard his, now familiar, groan behind her. A warm spray spattered her buttocks followed by an anguished howl and a loud thump.

He was on the ground.

 _Why was he on the ground?_

 _Oh Gods!_

I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry!" The words ran together in a constant stream as she scrambled off the bed to kneel beside him.

His hands were cupped over his genitals and he was writhing in agony. The enchantment hadn't been fulfilled. Since he'd come on her instead of inside her, it had delivered its punishment. _What had he said?_ A shot of pain so severe that it made the Cruciatus pale by comparison.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she leaned over him, shaking her head in disbelief. "Professor, I'm just so sorry. I . . . I didn't mean . . ."

"Leave." The word was so anguished, it brought tears to her eyes.

"I can help you. Please . . . please tell me what I can do."

He panted heavily against the floor before using the last of his strength to lift his head and look at her.

"Get out," he growled.

Staggering to her feet, she snatched up her clothes and backed away from him, watching as he continued to writhe on the floor before turning and fleeing out the door.


	9. Return to Order

A/N: So lovely to receive your reviews and feedback. They inspired me to get this one up quickly. DSx

* * *

Hermione made it as far as the lounge room before she stopped.

The enchantment hadn't been fulfilled.

 _It hadn't been . . . fulfilled_.

She couldn't leave. It was her fault. She'd been so focused on stopping herself from orgasming that she'd pulled away at the last moment. It wasn't deliberate, a split second decision, but she'd inadvertently risked Snape's life as a result. In fact, in a matter of hours he could be executed because of it. Because of her.

Her chest was tight, aching with the enormity of what she'd done. She must fix it. No matter what, she had to put things right.

Dumping everything but her wand on the ground, she tentatively returned to the bedroom. He was still on the floor. Motionless. The enchantment must be devastatingly powerful to take down someone like Snape. She felt sick at the thought of what she'd put him through. _Was he conscious?_

Kneeling beside him, she lowered her face until she could see his clearly. Despite the fact that his eyes were closed and his features weren't contorted in pain any more, his breathing was still laboured. Speaking didn't seem to be particularly well advised after their previous exchange but she figured she should at least attempt to make him comfortable.

'Leviosa,' she whispered, using her wand to levitate him off the ground and lower him gently onto the bed. His eyes opened momentarily without appearing to focus before closing again. It was as though the shock of the enchantment had dazed and significantly weakened him.

Hermione chewed her bottom lip as she scanned his naked body. _Would he be able to go again?_ Even without the pain from the enchantment, it must take some time for a man to be ready to orgasm a second time. Sighing inwardly, she realised she hadn't the faintest clue about such things. She knew so much about so many topics but sex wasn't one of them. _Should she ask someone? But whom? And how?_ Harry or Ron would probably tell her but she was even too embarrassed to ask them. And she really didn't want to leave Snape in this state.

She could administer a healing potion but she doubted it would have much effect. Time was what he most likely needed to recover. And unfortunately that was something they didn't have a lot of.

It wasn't cold—the bedroom fire saw to that. But he still looked . . . exposed. Reluctant to lift him again, she made her way over to a large wardrobe in the corner and opened it. An array of, mostly black, clothes were hanging on one side. The other held bedding. She chose a large, soft blanket, again expecting someone like Snape to possess only harsh, scratchy ones.

Carrying it to the bed, she knelt beside him and arranged the blanket so that it covered him up to his chest. _Better. But now what?_ She needed to wait—a little while at least—let whatever needed to restore itself down there do whatever it needed to do. Keeping a wary eye on him, she eased herself down onto the pillow opposite.

His eyes remained closed, making him appear almost peaceful—except for the permanent frown creasing his brow. She'd never really looked at him like this, averting her gaze on most other occasions in case he deducted house points for daydreaming or insubordination or gawping or whatever else he could come up with.

She noted that his nose was definitely large. But not abnormally so. In fact, all of his features were bold—but they were also elegant. It was quite a striking combination now that she was able to study him properly. His unique features were also probably partially responsible for the fear he'd instilled in her, and every other student, since their first year—he'd always appeared strikingly severe, solemn and . . . imminently lethal. He was by far the scariest person and/or creature at Hogwarts.

But lying next to him now. Knowing that she'd hurt him. And having seen another side to him in the past weeks, a gentle and . . . considerate side, she had trouble conjuring the same trepidation. She was getting used to him. More comfortable. Of course he could still bite—he'd done so not long before. But it seemed very much like a protective reflex, an attempt at self-preservation, rather than malice.

Nevertheless, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't attempt to attack her again for what she was about to do. It was going to be very much an exploratory venture. She literally hadn't a clue. But she'd learned a little from him along the way and if there was something that she prided herself in, it was her capacity to learn. She'd use that, her intuition and as much Gryffindor courage as she could muster.

Picking up her wand, she reversed the Histomalleus spell on her elbows. It had seemed the most innocuous body part to transform earlier and although she was tempted to blame them for her collapse, it clearly wasn't the case. The truth was that she'd been selfish and she'd fucked up. So, as part of her olive branch, her attempt to make amends, she transformed one breast with a circular flourish of her wand, and then the other.

 _Not bad._ She'd never been unhappy with the size of her breasts, or wanted bigger ones, but now that she was sporting an augmented pair she found herself quite taken with them, gently shaking the two voluptuous mounds as they rested upon her chest.

He liked touching her breasts—that was one thing she did know. And sucking on them. Her eyes returned to his stony face. There wouldn't be a lot of sucking this time judging by the fact that he was pretty well out of it. But he might be able to touch them.

Drawing a deep breath, Hermione steeled herself for what she was fully expecting to be one of the most difficult encounters of her life. She never entered into anything under-prepared as it drove her anxiety to nosebleed levels. But this time she had no choice. All of her inexperience would be on show—up in lights. It could be unbearably shameful. And there was a good chance that it wouldn't even work . . . that he would still . . . She immediately stopped that line of contemplation. It was just too difficult.

Leaning over, she peeled the blanket back and tossed it gently aside so that she could see all of him again. His cock was looking pretty miserable as it turned out. Or maybe that's what normal cocks looked like. Again she had little to compare it with. Quickly, she cast a cleansing spell which caused him to stir a little but his eyes remained closed. Cleaning his penis probably wasn't absolutely required as she knew exactly where it had been but there were too many parts of that scenario she wasn't comfortable with so for the sake of her own psyche, it actually was required.

Reaching out a trembling hand, she touched his member with her fingertips, her eyes flickering to his face to gauge his response. Nothing. _That could be bad_. He had to respond at some stage, after all. Sliding her fingers forward to feel him a little more fully, she reflected that she hadn't actually touched a penis before. Not with her hands anyway. It was so much softer than she'd expected—probably the softest skin she'd ever felt, even softer than an earlobe or lips.

She found herself suddenly petting him—like a baby rabbit or something. She didn't imagine that it would be particularly stimulating, but she needed to get used to this as much as he did. Gradually she built up the courage to curl her fingers around it. She squeezed it a little. Pretty floppy. There didn't seem to be much going on in there. _Had it actually been physically damaged?_ It was possible. It was also possible that she was going to have to do a hell of a lot more than simply patting and squeezing.

Puffing her cheeks out, she released a steadying breath. _You've just got to do it, 'Mione_.

Checking that his eyes were still closed, she leaned down further until her face was directly over the hand that was still clutching him. She peered closely at his organ. It looked back at her. Surprisingly, it wasn't completely unappetising. It was clean, after all. The issue was that it belonged to her Professor. Swallowing down the saliva that had somehow pooled in her mouth, she closed her eyes so she didn't have to focus on too many things at once, before putting out her tongue and giving it a quick lick. Just on one side.

It tasted like skin, a fraction salty. Not too bad. She did it again. Licking a bit more this time. It was just like a lollipop, except not as nice, and warmer, and softer and . . . nothing like a lollipop. But she could do this.

She kept licking, working her way downwards until it became a bit too hairy for her to cope. She was avoiding the main part and she knew it. It was just that . . .

Raising her head, Hermione took a few deep breaths. She was never one to give up easily—and she always relished a challenge. She just needed to treat this as such—to approach it with the level of enthusiasm required to be successful. But it didn't escape her that this should also be about pleasure. She needed to bring him pleasure and she found she wasn't averse to the idea. After all, she owed it to him. This was her opportunity to apologise.

With that thought in mind, she gave up on the idea that she could lick him to orgasm and immediately took his head in her mouth. His thighs squeezed in slightly but, refusing to be diverted, she began stroking his shaft with her fist, pulling the loose skin up and down as she sucked gently. _Did this feel good?_

Tilting her head, she managed to take in his face as she continued to work. His chin lifted fractionally at an eyebrow gently arched. Something was happening. Tugging a little more forcefully, she tried to take him a little more deeply but felt herself wanting to gag. She had to respect her limits, despite what she might want to do.

 _Maybe she could just do more with her tongue?_ She started to explore the various bumps and ridges, moving her head around a little since, in her experience of sex so far, things had never been particularly stagnant. Then she felt it, a definite sponginess inside her palm. He was swelling. She smiled as she flicked her tongue around and over his head. She was even buoyed enough to venture into his slit before realising that there was something leaking out. Preferring not to think too much about it, she satisfied herself with the thought that it was normal and it was progress in the right direction.

His chest rose and fell as his lips parted to draw in more air. Hermione couldn't believe the relief that was coursing through her body. This was going far better than she could have hoped . . . so far. The question now was, _when should he go inside her?_ _Was there also a risk that he would come in her mouth and be in another world of hurt?_

Releasing him, she did a bend test on his cock with both hands and realised there was still a little way to go. _What else could she do?_ She looked down at his testicles. Men certainly reacted when they were kicked there; no doubt they were sensitive in other ways. Venturing a hand down, she fondled his surprisingly weighty globes gently with her fingers as she continued to stroke along his length and finished by taking him into her mouth again.

He groaned. She almost bit him with joy.

His cock turned even harder within her grip. _Was it time to move onto the next, and equally terrifying, part of the plan?_ She figured there was no point in waiting any longer. Sitting up, she found that her jaw was aching from her efforts. Still, it had been worth it for a chance to redeem herself.

Hermione shuffled toward him on her knees before lifting her leg and straddling his waist. His eyes were still closed. Reaching behind her, she grasped his erection and realised that this part was going to be more difficult than originally thought. She needed to line him up but the angle wasn't quite right. Leaning forward, she tilted him further until it felt like he was close to the right place.

Pushing backwards, she felt some pressure but no sense that she was being entered. Straining forward again, she repositioned and tested with a dip of her buttocks. It took a few more times before she finally felt him pop through the resistance. Still wet from the previous round, she discovered that rocking backwards and forwards enabled her to gradually work him inside her. But by the time he was fully in, she was gasping from the effort. Wiping her hair back from her perspiring face, she stopped to gather herself.

 _Breasts_. They felt rather heavy hanging from her front now. And the nipples looked enormous. Using both hands, Hermione grasped Snape by the wrists and lifted his arms, flattening his palms against the skin of her breasts. There was a small amount of weak movement from his long fingers, as though he was trying to respond. Supporting his hands with hers, she used her thighs to lift herself before dropping back down.

Her natural inclination was to move like she was on a trotting horse but it felt a bit too vertical; she needed to be more diagonal. Gliding her hips forward on the upstroke, she tilted her pelvis backwards on the downstroke. It felt better, like she was at least moving in the same plane as the angle of his member inside her. And as she moved, she squeezed her core muscles. If this was all about stimulation, she figured that would at least add something to the sensation.

Frowning in concentration, she attempted to find a rhythm but it was surprisingly difficult, feeling stiff and stilted, rather than smooth. And she was getting tired. Indeed, she would have put her hands down to support herself if she wasn't trying to keep Snape on her breasts.

"Come on," she whispered. "Give me something."

And it seemed to get through. His hands suddenly firmed a little around the generous globes of her breasts before his fingers twitched and flexed, searching out her nipples. Fingertips closing upon the base of each, he tugged them in the way she'd now become used to. Immediately her belly clenched, and she felt the rhythm of her hips start to flow more naturally.

He rolled and squeezed until she began to moan. Then one of his hands turned and grasped hers, guiding it blindly downward. _What was he doing?_ She studied his face. It gave away nothing but when she looked down she found that he'd placed her fingers against her mons—and was holding them there.

She closed her eyes. If this was what he needed, she'd do it.

Curling her fingers, she slid them down until she reached her clitoris. Gradually, she began to massage the sensitive nub, finding that her movements automatically smoothed out and sped up. As she rubbed and stroked, his hand returned to her breast and resumed rolling and teasing.

Hermione heard a breathy whine and realised it was coming from her—her own heaving chest. And when she opened her eyes she found that he was looking at her, his black orbs gazing at her so intently that she almost toppled off him. But she was getting close and she felt that he was too.

Closing her eyes again, she resumed her movements, jiggling more forcefully between her lips.

"Uhhhh," she moaned, her head pitching forward. He clutched her breasts as a deep groan escaped him in response.

Her fatiguing thighs began to shudder but she kept rocking, squeezing him inside her as her muscles tensed. One of his hands dropped to her thigh, grasping her as he thrust into her from below.

"Gods!" she gasped. Then a whimper as her agitating fingers finally pushed her over the edge. She seized and plunged down onto him and his fingers curled into her flesh as he cried out. Writhing and shuddering, she felt the spark of the enchantment drive deep inside her as it flickered across the waves of her orgasm. He was there. She'd done it.

As tears of relief prickled her eyes, she collapsed forward. But before she could right herself, his arm was there, encircling her shoulders. And so she remained, her cheek against his chest, listening to his thundering heart and knowing that he was safe—at least for another week.


	10. Not What He Ordered

A/N: And to my lovely American friends, a small reference in this chapter for your enjoyment, DSx

* * *

"I'm early." Hermione sat down quickly, her eyes darting about to check that no one was eavesdropping.

"You are, in fact, eight minutes late," Snape replied sternly, scanning the stack of books that Hermione had just dumped on the table in front of him.

"No." Her eyes flickered uncomfortably up to meet his before sliding away. "I mean . . . I'm early. My period . . . it's come earlier . . . than expected."

He stared at her, comprehension dawning.

Flushing with a combination of embarrassment and anger, she sought to defend herself. "It's because you've been going in there and—"

"Yes, alright," he interrupted, raising his palm to placate her.

He'd been aware that their activities may interrupt things, especially since it was her first time. And even though she'd indicated after their most recent engagement that the timing shouldn't pose an issue, it was clear that they should have met up earlier in the week. It was his fault. He should have raised the possibility—taken steps to avoid it.

"This is not your concern, Miss Granger," he stated, fixing her with his black gaze. "I will make alternative arrangements."

Despite his casual assurances, Hermione knew he didn't have a range of options to choose from. In fact, she doubted there were any readily available opportunities at all. And that's why she'd been running late for their meeting. She and Ginny had been . . . busy.

"I've compiled a list," she informed him, reaching down to withdraw a roll of parchment from her bag. "From the Muggle newspapers. These are ten venues holding 'Singles' Nights' this Friday. I believe they would be your best option for . . . picking up an appropriate . . . person."

 _Why was it so difficult to talk about this?_ They'd had sex four times now. _How could conversing be harder than fucking?_

The displeasure was evident on his face but the fact that he eventually took the parchment from her hand verified that he really was in a bind.

Scanning the page briefly, he delivered a curt nod and rolled it back up. "I appreciate . . . your consideration."

Hermione held in a sigh. He was as bad at this as she was.

"I can help you to prepare . . . if you wish?"

His expression became wary. "Prepare?"

"Yes—you know, work out what to wear and how to approach—"

"That won't be necessary." He gave a small dismissive flick of his fingers before lifting a book from the pile as though suddenly keenly interested.

He was only pretending to be unconcerned; she was sure of it. He'd revealed in Madam Puddifoots that one of his two previous encounters had gone badly. No doubt that was still playing on his mind. Indeed, if he was any good at 'picking up' he wouldn't need her at all and he certainly wouldn't need Dumbledore to match him up with certain 'acquaintances'.

"What are you going to wear?"

He glanced up from the book. "I believe I've made it clear that I don't require your assistance any further."

"Because if it's what you have on now, you won't stand a chance."

He frowned down at his attire. "I'm not going to be wearing robes, am I," he responded irritably.

"It's not just the robes." Hermione's voice dropped as a student walked past. "You look too formal. You'll scare people away."

He glared, a tinge of colour rising in his cheeks. She'd embarrassed him. He really was far more sensitive than she'd ever expected.

"Do you own a black shirt?" she continued, undeterred. "I believe you could pair it with your usual black trousers, but don't button it up so high, you need to look casual. And Muggle men your age don't generally have hair that long, unless they're artists or musicians or—"

His frown had deepened to a point that would normally cause her to shut up if they were in the classroom but she needed to finish.

"Anyway, I recommend that you tie it back, just something low should do. And . . . and . . . finally, you should wear an eye-patch."

"A what?!" he growled.

She looked around to see if anyone else had been as alarmed by his outburst as she was. Luckily, it was late enough for most students to have returned to their common rooms—the library was almost empty.

"Is this to make me less likely to 'scare people away'?" he sneered.

"Listen." Hermione stated firmly. "You never smile. You glare. You scowl. I'm not sure if you're always aware that you're doing it, but a black eye-patch will make you look interesting and . . . mysterious. It can be an icebreaker. People will assume that you're frowning due to some exotic or heroic circumstance not because you're a . . . miserable git."

The last words dropped out of Hermione's mouth before she could stop them. She, Ron and Harry had referred to him as such so often that she forgot that it might not be something he would know . . . or appreciate.

"Whilst I acknowledge your sage advice, garnered no doubt from your _vast experience_ in such matters," he muttered snidely, leaning toward her. "I will thank you to stay out of my affairs."

 _His affairs?_ Her eyebrows lurched up in disbelief as she leaned in further, aware that she was now uncomfortably close.

"It is patently clear that you consider me to be hopelessly naïve and pathetically inexperienced, Professor," she snipped. "However, I am a female. And I do actually know something about attraction." She suddenly felt herself warming and drew back a little. "You are intimidating. Muggle women won't approach you as you are. It's up to you whether you want this to be successful or not." The faint shuttering of his eyes was distracting but she continued. "And I would argue that I'm pretty bloody well embroiled in _your affairs_ at this point. So kindly inform me if my services are no longer required as I would happily divest myself of the responsibility."

He stared at her. _She was so bloody difficult. But so . . ._

He sighed. "I don't take your sacrifices on my behalf for granted despite what you may think. Indeed, perhaps I should have expressed my appreciation before now." His gaze dropped to the book before him as though hoping for a prompt. "This is not a circumstance that I would have chosen for myself, let alone another, especially a student." She watched as he seemed to be lost in reflection before gathering himself and addressing her directly. "However, you must understand that this arrangement does not extend to a natural requirement for styling and relationship advice, no matter how well intended."

Hermione stood and collected her books.

"With respect, Professor, I believe that it does. I have invested a significant amount of psychological and emotional energy to date and I would expect you to do everything in your power to ensure that my efforts on your behalf are repaid with equal effort of your own."

"You suppose that I'm not trying?" His eyes flashed.

"I don't suppose anything. I just expect you to want to succeed."

She snatched up her bag and disappeared between the towers of books.

 _A fucking eye-patch?_ She was the only person who could deliver advice in a way that made him feel simultaneously insulted, incredulous and . . . appreciative. But that was her in a nutshell. He vacillated between wanting to strangle her and wanting to . . . He quickly raked his fingers through his hair. It wasn't something he usually did around students as it made him appear capricious. But it also helped him to clear his thoughts.

She wasn't always brittle. Sometimes she was quiet, gentle. She'd laid with her head upon his chest, breathing softly, and he'd wanted to stroke her. _But why? For what purpose?_ There was nothing to be gained from it and yet it had taken all of his effort to still himself.

If he were truly thankful he would never consider taking advantage of her. After all, she was approaching this as seriously as he. And it was clearly requiring a huge amount of effort. The image of her riding him, obviously conflicted, and yet bringing herself to release was . . . striking. Dumbledore was right; she was courageous. Yet there was something about bravery when it was worn as a badge of honour as it was with her. Sometimes it was an impossible force to counter, even when the better choice was to back down—to turn away—even to run.

* * *

"What happened to your eye, Honey?"

She wasn't bad. American by the sounds of it. But he was already holding a drink for another who had needed to 'rush off to the loo' and so sufficed with a wink. It probably didn't look like a wink since the other eye was covered, but she'd flashed a smile in return. If he didn't have any luck with the other one, he might seek her out.

It was almost unconscionable how well the eye-patch had worked. Not only did it attract attention and gain him sympathy, it almost felt like a disguise—a little protection—to the point that he found himself flirting with ease—something he'd never felt inclined to do, or particularly good at in the past.

The black shirt had also been a well-advised purchase. He'd bought it in an expensive Muggle shop where the sales assistant had assured him that the 'fitted look' was 'in' as she gratuitously stroked her hands across his chest. He'd been in half a mind to pursue her and avoid wasting an evening trawling the singles bars but the ambience had been all wrong.

Now he was standing in a crowded bar, low lights flickering in time with the music, a few drinks under his belt and confident of a 'successful' evening.

"Thanks!" The girl bounced up, having finally returned from 'the loo,' make-up freshly applied, breasts sitting a little higher, neckline a little lower.

He handed her the glass and she clamped her bright red lips around the straw, sucking hard.

"I was thinking . . ." she spoke loudly over the din of music and voices. "Do you want to come back to mine? My flat-mate is away and we could . . . you know?"

He placed a hand on her waist before leaning down.

"Sounds enticing." He traced his thumb downward until he was massaging the dip adjacent to her pubic bone. She pressed against him. "However, I must confess something."

"Mmm?" She was sucking at the straw again.

"Anything we engage in must be . . . unprotected . . . because I have a condition due to my . . ." He raised his finger and tapped the eye-patch.

She frowned, understandably confused. It was probably the most ridiculous thing he'd ever said in his life.

But then she shrugged. "I'll just get the morning after pill. You don't have any diseases do you?"

"Only this." He tapped the eye patch again. "And it's not contagious."

That seemed to be enough. There was something to be said for stupidity—or simply not wishing to disrupt a good delusion. Either way, she snatched the straw from her glass and downed the rest before flinging it away.

"I really hope you've got a big dick," she murmured in his ear before raising a seductive eyebrow and dragging him by the hand out the door.

* * *

"Is it your condition?"

He dragged a hand across his mouth, quite unable to believe what was happening.

"Perhaps."

"Do you want to touch my tits some more?" She jiggled them in his face.

He didn't think it would help. _Had the enchantment actually caused some permanent damage?_ It seemed unlikely since he'd managed an erection since. And he'd come.

"Should I suck it some more?" She grasped his flaccid member in her fist and wiggled it about.

"No," he replied abruptly. "I think it's . . . it's definitely my condition. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

"You could still eat my pussy," she pouted. "This isn't all about you."

"Actually, I'm afraid it is." He rolled off the bed and reached into his coat on the floor, bringing out his wand.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice rising in panic.

"Obliviate!"

He left her standing in the bedroom, stunned.

If only he could Obliviate himself—remove the memories that had somehow chained themselves to his arousal. He didn't understand why it had happened—especially considering the manner of their engagement. But it was a significant problem. Or at least it would be if he hadn't finally run out of luck . . . and time.

He had no choice but to return to Hogwarts and allow the remaining hours of his life to tick away. At least he could tell her—indeed tell them all—that he had tried.


	11. Not What She Ordered

_A/N: So I'm obliged to deliver a warning here but it seems that most of you are ahead of me on this already anyway. Without giving anything away, the warning relates to sex and menstrual blood. I'd like to acknowledge the creative and diverse suggestions that these two have received from you lovely folk regarding 'shark week', 'bloodbaths, 'riding the crimson tide', 'pirates on the Red Sea' etc. I have greatly enjoyed reading your responses. :) Many thanks as always, DSx_

* * *

 _10.45pm_.

Hermione rolled over, stuffing her hand under the pillow so she wouldn't be tempted to look at her watch again.

 _Had he managed to find someone?_

She tried to close her eyes but all she could see, flickering in her mind's eye, was the awful image of him hunched forward, rocking on the floor in pain. There were so many things that could go wrong with the enchantment. _What if it had happened again?_ He could be lying unconscious somewhere. He might not even be able to get home.

Huffing, she rolled onto her back and stared at the moon shadows smeared across the ceiling. There was only one thing for it—she would have to check. Otherwise she'd ruminate on that image, turning it over and over until her anxiety levels were so high that sleep would be all but impossible.

Sitting abruptly, she pushed back the covers before stretching her feet into the gloom, trying to locate her slippers. Finally managing to pull them on, she struggled into her dressing gown and quietly cast Lumos before letting herself out the door.

Since her unpleasant altercation with Draco in the stairwell, she'd taken to avoiding the most direct route to the Dungeons, and so it took a good deal longer than she would have liked, her bare legs freezing by the time she arrived at his door.

Raising a fist, she knocked.

Nothing. Silence.

Knocking louder, she pressed her ear to the door. _Was he in there?_

Under normal circumstances, the thought of breaking into a teacher's room, especially Snape's, would have mortified her. But she couldn't leave until she knew—until she'd satisfied herself either way.

"Alohomora," she whispered. There was a metallic scraping sound and the door popped open, amber light seeping into the classroom. She straightened as a surge of adrenaline hit her. He must be there.

Pressing her fingertips against the icy surface she pushed.

"What do you want?"

Hermione blinked. "What are you doing?"

"I would have thought that was obvious." He turned his shadowed face back to the fire, a bottle held limply by his side.

"Are you drunk?"

"Always so perceptive," he muttered, lifting the bottle and taking a large gulp.

Hermione stepped forward and closed the door behind her before shoving both her wand and freezing hands into her dressing gown pockets.

"Has the enchantment been fulfilled?"

He snorted, taking another swig.

"And so you're just giving up?"

The fire crackled louder against the silence.

"I expected more from you."

He swayed a little as he lifted his head to regard her. "You wouldn't be the first."

His dark, mirthless chuckle made her wince. "Top marks in disappointment."

She took a step towards him.

"I'd never considered you to be so self-indulgent."

The shadowed seam creasing his brow deepened as his eyes narrowed.

"I doubt you ever considered me at all."

The hollow ring of his words jolted her but she suspected that their true meaning was deeper than she could understand.

"And yet I'm here."

"Which brings me back to my first question." He slid the bottle onto the mantel before standing to his full height. "What do you want?"

Hermione's heart and mind were racing, her stomach heavy with an odd sense of guilty obligation—to him, to the Order, to herself, to Harry. But they couldn't all win. If she sought to fulfil her responsibility to herself, she would leave—return to her bedroom, bury herself in her quilt and, as a seventeen year old girl, let all of this slip back into the domain of the 'adults' where it belonged. She should be focusing upon completing her studies to the best of her ability, working out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.

And yet she remained—standing in his lounge room. She was involved whether she liked it or not—whether it was a fair expectation of her as a student, or even as a girl being shoved into womanhood. And whilst there was nothing about this that was okay in her mind, it was clear that he felt the same. _He would rather die, for Merlin's sake_.

"Where are your sobriety potions?"

It took a few moments for the meaning of her words to filter through.

"It's enough, don't you think?" He shook his head. "It's gone far enough . . . All of it."

Hermione approached until she was standing only feet from him. "No. It's enough when there's nothing and no one left to protect. You made a commitment. And so did I. There are many without a choice. But we have one. So tell me where you keep your potions."

He stared at her for a long time before closing his eyes with a sigh. "Chest of drawers. Bedroom. Green bottle."

Flicking her wand, she lit the lamps in both rooms before locating the drawers. A quick search and she returned with a small green bottle. As she handed it to him, he regarded her with a gaze of such intensity that she had to look away.

Focusing upon the leaping flames, she heard him swallow the contents.

Moments later, he cleared his throat and she looked up to see that he was standing erect, black eyes clear, eyelids no longer hovering at half-mast.

"Do you have a shower in your bathroom?"

"Yes."

Hermione nodded before turning and leading the way. He followed.

The bathroom and shower were surprisingly spacious. She hadn't ventured in there on any of her previous visits as it had seemed private—a bit ridiculous really considering the circumstances.

"I need to . . . prepare." She turned to him. "Perhaps you can go in first?"

He still looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Are you sure?"

She held his gaze before suddenly reaching up and pulling the elastic tie from his hair, dropping it to the floor.

"I really thought that would have worked," she murmured to herself, scanning his black shirt.

His chest tightened as his gaze dropped away from hers.

"Just hurry up, I'm still freezing," she said, turning away to give him some privacy—equally ridiculous but, then again, what wasn't with this whole bloody affair?

The sound of spraying water reached her, followed by the thump of the shower door closing. Glancing in the direction of the steaming cubicle, she sat on the toilet and removed her tampon, wrapping it up carefully and placing it in the pocket of her dressing gown before undressing completely.

At the last moment she remembered. Pulling her wand from her pocket, she cast Histomalleus on her ears, giving the tops small points like an elf. It was next on the list of changes that she'd been compiling. After the first time, she realised that she needed to keep track of them since she couldn't afford to make the same change twice.

Tossing her wand back onto her pile of clothes, she slowly approached the shower. If she'd had longer to think about this, in all likelihood she would have capitulated to her misgivings—after all, it was just making a terribly messy situation even messier. For both of them.

Still, if he was willing to overlook the horrible awkwardness, she should make an attempt to rise above it also.

Drawing a deep breath, she slid back the shower door.

The hot spray pummelled his face and hair, and felt surprisingly soothing after the events of the evening. But when he turned to see her standing naked in the open doorway, the obvious trepidation on her face caused a fresh wave of self-loathing to swamp him. If he'd been able to perform as required, she wouldn't have to put herself through this. But it hadn't happened. _Not even close_. His sober self was even more concerned than his inebriated self by the fact that he couldn't even get it up to save his own life. It was inexplicable. He wondered then about the alcohol. _Perhaps it had impacted him more than he'd originally thought?_

But as she stepped into the spray beside him, looking up at him warily with her probing, intelligent eyes before placing her small hand on his chest, he immediately felt himself stir. It was too complex to fathom. The disquieting emotions surrounding this ran far deeper than he could admit. But he was also simultaneously relieved, and grateful—she was clearly trying to make this easier for him, her other hand now sliding down his hip, giving him permission to do the same.

But he found himself reaching, instead, toward her face, his fingers sliding along the elegant line of her jaw before coming to rest with his thumb against the soft pad of her bottom lip. The pressure parted them slightly, water trickling into her mouth. Her lips were naturally pink and sculpted—not gaudy red, rimmed with liner, like the other girl's had been. And the urge to kiss them was so monumental that he had to close his eyes, admonishing himself for daring to behave as though something else existed between them. She was doing this for Potter. And she'd admitted to doing it for her own protection. She wasn't doing it for him. And she shouldn't.

With a quiet sigh, he leaned down and grasped her above the hips before lifting so that her breasts were level with his face. Leaning her back against the glass, he took one nipple in his mouth and sucked it the way he knew she liked it.

Her arms immediately wrapped around his head and he caught her rising moan above the sound of the rushing water. Swirling his tongue around her nipple, he tugged with his lips until she moaned again, her legs opening, lifting to encircle his waist. Holding her in place with one arm, he slid the other hand between their wet bodies. Delving downward, he soon found the swollen head of her clitoris. Jostling the firm bud with his thumb he released one nipple in order to service the other. Legs tightening around him, she began to thrust, her pussy kneading into his abdomen more and more vigorously.

He wasn't sure if it was the fact that she had dictated their entire previous encounter but she seemed far less inhibited. The sensation of her firm, young body writhing between his torso and the glass was so arousing that his rock hard cock was now jabbing up into the cleft of her buttocks every time she ground against him. In fact, he needed to get inside her quickly. Otherwise . . . he knew exactly what the consequences would be. And it was something he never wanted to experience again in his lifetime.

Releasing her breasts, he allowed her to slide down the glass a fraction, her legs slipping down to his hips until her pussy was at the perfect height for him to guide his head into her opening. As he easily slipped inside, she jerked her gaze upwards, clearly unwilling to investigate what else was going on down there.

And so he thought it best to provide a suitable distraction. Rocking his hips, he thrust incrementally into her tight opening, somehow hotter even than the shower that continued to pound down upon them. Then his thumb returned to her clitoris, massaging it insistently as he plunged into her in solid strokes against the glass.

Her breathing came in shallow gasps and he could tell she was already close. She'd never allowed him to bring her to orgasm before so he was half expecting her to pull his hand away but she didn't. Instead her head tipped back against the glass, her mouth falling open as he pumped and rubbed.

And when she began keening, a needy mewling sound signifying her imminent release, he felt his balls contract, gathering for his own ejection. Fingers curling into his wet hair, she began to twitch in his arms, her muscles already losing control. And then he felt her entire body seize, clamping around his waist, clawing at his shoulders, squeezing a shocked cry from her lungs and choking his cock again and again until it finally gave in, exploding with one of the most powerful orgasms he'd had in years. His hips continued to plunge vigorously of their own accord, celebrating both the joyful release of a week of pent up ejaculate and the simultaneously gratifying depolarisation of his shaft.

When he pulled out there was only a smear of blood, washed off in seconds. He wondered then why he'd been willing to risk his life to avoid it. But when he looked into her face, flushed and exhausted, he realised that this whole affair—what it had taken from them to date and the looming threat of further turmoil—was far from simple. The challenge now was to stop it from eroding them completely.


	12. Pecking Order

A/N: Apologies for my slow response to your reviews but I've been trying to get some chapters up before I return to work. Will get onto them soon. DSx

* * *

"No . . . They made me . . . They made me do it . . ."

"Hermione!" Lavender Brown's face loomed close as Hermione felt herself being shaken roughly by the shoulder.

"What?" she gasped as she rose abruptly, only just managing to avoid colliding with Lavender's nose.

"You were calling out . . . again."

"Again?"

"Yes, again." Lavender stomped back to her bed before flinging herself down onto it and burying her face in her pillow.

Through the crack in the dormitory curtains, Hermione saw the silvery grey of dawn. Lavender never appreciated being woken early, no doubt she'd be grumpy for the rest of the day.

Sinking back into her pillow, Hermione closed her eyes, shreds of her dream eddying and swirling before coalescing into an image that suddenly made her stomach clench. It was such a visceral manifestation of disgust that she felt like she might be sick. And as she rolled over to face the floor, tears sprang to her eyes—she remembered what she'd been shouting . . . and why.

She'd dreamed she was in her bedroom at home—where she lived with her parents. And the whole room had been flooding, rapidly filling with water. She was kneeling on the bed and a girl about her age was lying on it, a black blindfold covering her eyes. Hermione was masturbating her with a large, black dildo and the girl was crying, blood trickling out of her onto the bed.

Hermione kept telling her that she was sorry but that she had to do it; that it was the only way to stop the water rising—otherwise they would both drown. The girl was moaning that she didn't believe her. That it didn't make sense. Finally, she tore off the blindfold and screamed at her. She accused Hermione of getting off on it, of enjoying what she was doing.

Hermione shook her head but looked down to see that she was rubbing her own clitoris; she could feel that she wanted to come. She was trying to explain to the girl that, despite how it looked, it wasn't her idea, that she didn't want to do it, that they had made her . . . they had made her do it.

* * *

He wouldn't look at her.

Hermione kept throwing furtive glances at the High Table but Snape was intently, and quite deliberately it seemed, focusing on his plate. He spoke to no one.

She'd sent him two owls asking that he meet with her but received no response.

She needed to talk to him urgently. The gut-wrenching images from her dream had continued to haunt her throughout the day, their meaning abundantly clear. She blamed herself. She felt responsible for driving the wickedness of the Muggle decree.

She had attempted to orchestrate Snape's liaison with some other unknowing young woman, she'd practically had to force him to have sex with her the previous evening—while on her period, for Merlin's sake. And . . . she'd enjoyed it. She'd not held back whatsoever, the mental images of her desperately grinding herself into his stomach generating another wave of nausea.

She should not be the one forcing this fucking thing to happen. It wasn't hers to own. And yet when bloody bossy, know-it-all Hermione sees a problem, she has to fucking fix it. She couldn't any more. And she wouldn't. It was not . . . fucking . . . hers!

Snape pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and strode from the hall, robes billowing in his wake.

* * *

Clutching his arm to his chest, Snape approached the Apparition point. His Dark Mark throbbed and burned with such intensity, he suspected that the Dark Lord was planning another execution. Those who failed to fulfil the enchantment were being murdered in the manner of traitors—the worst possible death of all. And as he recalled the fate of the last one, the father of a young child, his stomach clenched in revulsion, forcing him to stop. Drawing in deep breaths, he blinked up at the heavy sky, steeling himself before stepping through the Apparition point.

* * *

 _Professor Snape,_

 _If you do not respond to my request to meet this evening, I am afraid that I am going to have to withdraw from my role in service of the Order._

 _Regards,_

 _Hermione Granger_

She needed to know that she'd done the right thing. She had no one else to talk to. Deep down she felt he'd lost respect for her—that he saw her in the same way that the girl in her dream did, that she was getting off on the whole thing, enjoying the sordidity of it all. She just had to fucking know.

As the owl exited her window clutching the parchment, she sat on her bed hugging her knees to her chest.

And waited.

* * *

A hunched, black figure materialised out of the mist. As Dumbledore approached, he could see that the damage was severe.

One of his eyes was already closing over; his shirt was soaked with blood.

The figure tried to move forward another step but stumbled. Dumbledore appeared at his side, grabbing him before he fell.

"What have they done to you, Severus?" he murmured, his voice strained, heavy with emotion.

The dark wizard tried to focus on him.

"Albus?" It was a mere whisper, a pitiable shadow of his normally indomitable baritone.

"You're safe now," Dumbledore reassured him, tightening his grip around his shoulders. "Was it more answers they were after?"

Snape's nod was almost imperceptible.

"I told them . . . nothing."

Dumbledore smiled sadly at the younger man's broken face. "Well done, Severus," he rasped, before brushing his fingertips over Snape's eyelids, rendering him unconscious. With a flick of his hand, he lifted the pale, limp body to his chest and carried him into the castle.

* * *

"Where's Snape?" Harry whispered before running into the back of Hermione.

She had stopped dead. An elderly man was standing in Snape's place, writing on the blackboard.

"Horace Slughorn is my name." The man spoke over his shoulder to the class. "I'll be filling in for Professor Snape today. I'm a former Hogwarts Potions Master as many of you will know. And Professor Dumbledore assures me that there is plenty of talent in this class so I will be expecting great things from you."

Feeling Harry's sharp elbow in her back, Hermione continued walking. But as she approached her desk, her heart sank. Snape had relocated Draco to a desk on the opposite side of the room from her the previous week under the guise of 'restructuring' the classroom.

But now that Snape was away, he'd clearly decided that the change could no longer be enforced.

"Granger." He smirked as she dropped her bag beside her chair.

Without responding, she turned and sat.

Slughorn began delivering instructions but she barely heard him. Snape hadn't responded. She'd had another similar dream but this time the person on her bed was younger—a child. She'd woken feeling so ill that she'd had to run to the bathroom.

Afraid of sleeping, she'd spent most evenings trying to come up with alternatives, but there seemed to be nothing—apart from what they'd already discussed about moving beyond the Order.

The lack of sleep was also taking its toll. She'd been agitated and grumpy with everyone—including her good friends. Actually, especially at her good friends. Hearing Ron whisper to Harry about 'the time of the month', she'd proceeded to verbally castrate him. Not to mention the permanent malaise of rotting guilt roiling about in her stomach.

"Miss . . . er . . . Granger, is it?"

Slughorn stopped in front of her desk.

"Oh . . . um . . . Yes, Professor."

"You're looking a little peaky, are you feeling alright?"

"Well . . . actually . . . no." Hermione felt her voice tighten. Embarrassingly enough, his gentle tone made her feel like crying. "I have a . . . a headache."

"Oh, I see. I'll get you a glass of water. I find that always helps."

With a quick flourish of his wand, a full glass suddenly materialised on her desk.

"Hopefully that will do the trick. If not, let me know and we'll see what else can be done."

"Thank you, Professor." Hermione nodded gratefully before picking up the glass for a sip.

"Granger," Draco hissed as Slughorn moved away. "I know a good headache remedy—just for dirty Mudbloods. A proper pure-blood cock. Or two if the pain is really bad."

With a growl, Hermione turned and threw the water in his face.

"Bitch!" Draco spluttered, drawing his wand.

Hermione's was already drawn—levelled at his throat.

"What is this?!" Slughorn returned, pushing himself between them. "I'll have none of this in my classroom! Your houses will both received fifty point deductions. Now put those wands away!"

Breathing heavily, Hermione dropped her arm.

"Clearly you are not well enough to be attending class today." Slughorn frowned at her. "I suggest that you inform your other Professors and attend the hospital wing if required."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione mumbled, grabbing her bag and running from the room.

* * *

"Spin the bottle?"

Hermione lifted her head. "What?"

"Ta da!" Lavender waggled a full bottle of Firewhisky in her face.

"Where did you get that?"

"Where there's a will there's a way." Lavender smirked. "Now come and join us. We're playing downstairs. It'll be fun."

Hermione looked at her watch. _10.00 p.m._

She'd not heard from him all week. But she wouldn't be chasing him. Not this time.

Rolling off the bed, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked terrible, dark circles hollowing out her eyes. _Fuck_. She desperately needed some sleep. But she also needed a distraction. Spin the bottle seemed as good as any.

The Gryffindor common room was empty except for a small group sitting in a circle on the floor. When Hermione entered, they shuffled around so that she could join in.

"Everyone has to drink a finger before we start," Lavender instructed.

She wrapped her hand around the bottle as a gauge and drank down to the bottom of her index finger. Then she passed in on to Parvati Patil, who passed to Ron, Harry, Ginny, Seamus Finnigan and, finally, Hermione.

The fiery burn of the liquor, combined with the laughter and good-natured banter that followed as people choked and spluttered trying to drink as quickly as possible, instantly lifted her spirits.

"Okay, I'll go first since it's my bottle," Lavender announced.

She scanned the group with a sly grin but Hermione noticed that her gaze lingered on Ron as she grasped the bottle and gave it a quick flick. It spun vigorously before slowing to point at . . . Ron. Cheers went up as Lavender feigned surprise, despite Hermione noticing the wand hidden under her cardigan. A spell had clearly been involved but she didn't bother to point it out. Ron looked like all of his Christmasses had come at once anyway, and whilst she'd had feelings for him in the past, these past couple of months they had diminished entirely to the point that she couldn't even remember why she'd liked him in that way.

Lavender shuffled forward on her knees until she was kneeling before him. The silly grin on Ron's face didn't change from the moment she clamped her hands around it and pressed her lips to his, until she finally released him with what sounded like a disappointed sigh.

Hermione decided that she was glad she'd gotten over him. He really didn't have a clue.

"Okay, my turn." Ron pushed Lavender out of the way.

Giving the bottle an unnecessarily forceful spin, they waited impatiently for it to stop. Its final resting place drew whoops of laughter.

"I'm not kissing my bloody sister," he grumbled.

Everyone eventually agreed that it was fair enough, especially Ginny.

On the second spin, it landed on Parvati. She gave a small genial smile. It was clear to Hermione that she wasn't the slightest bit interested but the silly grin had returned to Ron's face. He crawled over to her, wrapping one arm around the back of her head before delivering what looked like a saliva transfusion. There were snorts from the others as Parvati pulled away before surreptitiously wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Ron seemed pretty pleased with himself as he took a swig from the bottle on the way back to his place in the circle.

"Your turn, Parvati." Lavender ordered tersely, her irritation more than evident.

Parvati leaned forward and her spin landed on Hermione. There was a burst of exuberant approval, especially from the boys.

"Hmm, my . . . lucky . . . day," Parvati murmured with a mischievous smirk, making everyone clap even more.

Hermione grinned. This was going to be interesting.

Parvati adopted a feline crawl as she approached, playing up to the onlookers.

When she was before Hermione, she reached out and placed a hand lightly under the curve of her jaw before leaning forward and pressing her lips to Hermione's. They were far softer than anyone Hermione had ever kissed before. It was really quite lovely. And just when she thought she was about to pull away, she felt Parvati's mouth open more, her tongue flicking out to briefly slip between Hermione's lips.

Hermione felt a flush roll over her as Parvati withdrew, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

"Hermione?" Seamus nodded enthusiastically at the bottle.

The warm buzz of the whisky and the amusing sexiness of Parvati's kiss was making her feel so much better.

Leaning forward, she delivered a firm spin. The bottle rotated . . . slower and slower until . . . Harry. More claps and laughter. Hermione immediately looked to Ginny who didn't seem put-out at all. In fact, she was clapping enthusiastically, seemingly eager for it to happen. Ginny knew that Hermione and Harry were practically sister and brother. It would be wrong, but funny.

Hermione raised a knowing eyebrow to Harry who delivered one of his trademark sheepish grins before adjusting his glasses.

"Let's get this over with," she sighed.

Crawling over to him, she rose up on her knees; he raised himself up to meet her. Grinning, she propped an arm on each of his shoulders while he responded by placing his hands on her hips. A piercing wolf whistle blasted from somewhere behind her.

Leaning in, she parted her lips slightly before meeting his. He opened a little, moving his mouth gently against hers. She felt nothing but it was—

"Miss Granger. I believe we had an . . . appointment?"

Gasping, both jerked towards the door.

There stood Snape. And he was not happy.


	13. Just What the Doctor Ordered

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Snape growled as soon as the common room door had closed behind them.

"I could ask you the same question," Hermione hissed angrily. "Why didn't you reply to my Owls?"

"I was busy." He ground out the last word.

"Well you don't seem to have a problem interrupting me when I'm busy."

"Is that what you call this?" Snape's eyebrows shot up. "Being 'busy' with Harry Potter?"

Hermione clamped her mouth shut. It was none of his business.

"I don't suppose that charming dalliance could have waited for another evening?" he snapped.

"It's not my fault that you always leave it to the last minute. You didn't respond. I needed to talk to you."

"Obviously. That's why you reneged on our appointment in favour of spending it in a 'close-quarters conversation' with Potter."

"What's your problem?" Hermione's voice rose in indignation. "You don't own me!"

Glancing around, Snape grabbed her by the elbow and started marching her down the corridor.

"You expect me to come running whenever you need me," she panted, having difficulty keeping up with him. "Or worse, you expect me to make everything happen. I shouldn't be controlling what happens. You should."

He didn't respond.

"You need to grow some balls."

He stopped dead. As he turned on her, the intensity of his glare made her throat close over.

"You want me to take control?"

Swallowing with difficulty under his impossibly dark gaze, she finally gave a shaky nod.

"Say it," he ordered.

"I . . . I want you to take control," she murmured.

"Do . . . not . . . forget . . . this." Each word was a solid jab, making it abundantly clear that he wouldn't let her forget. Tightening his grip on her arm, he pulled her toward a nearby door.

Wandlessly unlocking it, he pushed her through into a darkened classroom.

"What are we—?"

A hand clamped over her mouth. "When I'm in control . . . you . . . do . . . not . . . speak."

Her heart accelerated as his breath trickled down the back of her neck. _What had she just given him permission to do?_

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he twisted her around, disorienting her in the darkness. She reached out to steady herself but found her arms instantly pinned to her sides. _Escape!_ Trying to pull herself from his strong hands, she was suddenly met with the intense sensation of wet heat at the base of her neck. His mouth. She froze.

The laving pressure against her sensitive skin, magnified by the darkness, sent a shiver crawling into her scalp. Surging upward, he latched onto another mouthful of prickling flesh before suctioning onto the pulse thrumming wildly at her throat. She felt her neck muscles melting, her head dropping back despite the threat of teeth grazing against her life force.

"Uhhh," she moaned, a wordless plea for clemency. But she had a sense that she wouldn't be getting it. It was quite clear that he had a point to make. In all honesty, she was quite confident he'd already made it, she was struggling to draw breath after all. But as he cast one seam-splitting spell after another, causing layer upon layer of her clothing to slither away, she realised that he'd only just begun.

The cold rapidly seeped in. Her whole body tensed. She was freezing.

"Could you possibly cast a—"

Something was roughly pushed into her mouth. His thumb. Trapping her tongue. Her words turned into grunts and then into silence.

Then he removed himself from her altogether. She stood, shivering, only his shadowy outline visible in the gloom. _Was he going to leave her like that_ _—force her to return naked to the common room?_

But then she felt it—a feather-light touch grazing both of her freezing nipples. She jolted, clenching her hands into tight fists. And while she waited anxiously for the sensation to return, something even more unexpected happened. A warmth fluttered against her lips. Breath. His breath. And then lips, brushing, passing by once, twice, before they held, the slightest moisture adhering to hers but still barely perceptible. And his fingertips returned to her nipples, ghosting across them as lightly as his lips.

Her entire body was on high alert—nerve endings firing like crazy in an attempt to capture each ethereal thread of sensation. It was both tantalizing and agonizing. And so . . . controlled.

Oh so gradually the pressure built—tiny increments of stimulation that caused the air to stick in her lungs, unmoving until the next pinpoint of sensation released it, like the work of some sort of sensual acupuncturist.

Her nipples were being moulded from all sides, each base rolled delicately to the point that she could even feel the sub-structures, ducts and sponginess turning pliant. Then she was being opened, coaxed by brief, gentle nudges of his lips until she found her mouth gaping, shuddering gasps bursting from her throat, wondering where he was, which part of him would land next.

His tongue delivered only the briefest, delicate caress. Hers surged out to meet it but he was gone. Only his vibration remained, a trace of potent energy that she could almost taste. Her lips tingled, filling, engorging in anticipation of union, a hopeful end to the teasing that had her so exquisitely aroused that the possibility that he wouldn't kiss her drew a sob from her aching throat.

"Tell me what you want," his voice, a drizzle of warm honey, caused her to swallow—a vain attempt to take at least some part of him into her.

"I want you . . ." Her voice was pitiable. A whimper. But it was all she could manage. "I want you to . . . kiss me."

He didn't respond. His hands withdrew. Her entire body screamed into the darkness. _What did he want from her?_

Without warning, his hot mouth engulfed hers. A hand raked into her hair, gathering a fistful before jerking her head back so that her jaw dropped and she was as open to him as possible. As his lips devoured hers, tongue probing deep into her mouth, she felt herself responding with a level of desperation that shocked her. Lapping and drinking him like a dying woman offered cool water, she became aware of her own frantic moans and wondered who she'd become. They weren't sounds she'd ever made in her life.

And she would have put them down to a circumstantial aberration if he hadn't suddenly released her and they'd continued. It turned out she wanted him. Like no one she'd ever wanted in her life.

"Where is your wand?"

"Sorry?" she panted.

"Your wand?"

"It's . . . uhhh . . . it's in my pocket—my jacket."

"Accio."

A moment later she felt the smooth wood being placed in her hand. Then he lifted her, carrying her a few paces before sitting her bare backside on a hard surface—a desk. There was a flutter of cloth, followed by firm pressure against her chest as he pushed her down until she was lying on what felt like his coat.

His warm palms skimmed down her bare abdomen before sliding over her hips and curling around her inner thighs. Pushing her legs apart, he grasped the tip of her wand and directed it down between her legs. The cool wood touched her clitoris.

"Cast Histomalleus," he instructed.

Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she blinked into the swirling darkness above her. _What was he going to do?_

"Cast . . . the . . . incantation," he repeated.

She closed her eyes. "Histomalleus."

She instantly felt it—her nub—now swollen and heavy between her labia. Her wand slipped from her fingers. He'd removed it.

It began as the sensation of firm fingers peeling back the flesh of her lips, exposing the dampness of her pussy to the cool air. Opening her legs had felt revealing enough but having her most private region opened up like a dissection piece was excruciating.

At least that's how it felt until the next thing happened—until her detailed analysis suddenly became less important . . . much . . . less . . . important.

"Gods!"

His smouldering mouth had latched onto her giant clitoris, the tip of his tongue stroking along the shaft sending shocks of pleasure deep into her core.

Her head strained forward to see what was happening—as if she might understand the powerful sensations better if she could see. But it was almost completely dark and he was just a mass between her legs—an oh-so-intense form, stimulating her to a level that was almost beyond comprehension.

His tongue was soft but firm, like a cock but moving with conscious intent. And it was the intention that claimed her—that drove her to foggy incoherence. There seemed to be no boundaries to his exploration. After stroking and flicking her clitoris into a pulsing monster, he delved down and laved into her aching pussy. It must be dripping, drenched. But he didn't seem put off, alternating between ticklish prods and rhythmic plunges.

And she found her hips rocking reflexively to meet him. In many ways it was like fucking. But with the fine tickle of his hair between her thighs, she couldn't forget what was really going on down there. A tongue in her pussy seemed so much more extreme.

But when he returned his attention to her clitoris and slipped what felt like two good-sized digits inside her, she lost all concept of what fucking was and wasn't.

"Oh my . . . Oh. . . Oh fuck," she groaned, grabbing the side of the desk with one hand; the other fisting into his hair.

"Unnhhh."

Her head rocked from side to side as the speed of his thrusting fingers increased, his tongue going one-on-one with her clitoris—and clearly winning.

She felt his head shaking beneath her fist, jostling her throbbing nub mercilessly, and he was rubbing at a spot deep inside her, making her want to pee.

There were no words or expletives to relate what was happening. Even breathing seemed impossible at times. Crying was a real possibility. It was so visceral, so all-consuming.

The friction of his digits against her walls, and the pounding of his knuckles against her perineum as they rammed home again and again suddenly felt too good—too good not to let it all go.

Curling her fingers into his hair, her hips shuddered before rearing up violently as she came. A hoarse cry flew from her lips as she felt something liquid squirt from her seizing channels. The convulsions were extreme—playing out as forceful jerks and jolts throughout her entire body. And his fingers continued to plunge and shake inside her as she seized. _Could he feel her? Did he know she was coming?_

A sob escaped her as the last powerful contractions rippled through her pelvis, as he released her clitoris which was still pounding with blood, and withdrew from her pussy which continued to twitch with sizeable aftershocks.

Her thoughts were all over the place. Now that the distraction of arousal was behind her, she was trying to work out what had happened. And why.

But before she'd moved beyond his need to demonstrate sexual prowess, he'd rolled her over.

"I don't think I—" she began, but suddenly she was shoved forward and a firm hand gripped the back of her neck.

"What are you—!"

"Thump." Her forehead hit the desk.

She could feel him kneeling on the desk behind her. She was on all fours but he'd pushed her head down and was holding it there.

"In order for me to take control, you must relinquish it."

"But I don't—!"

"Thump." Her head thudded firmly against the desk again. It didn't actually hurt but it shocked her. And the sense of domination she felt was certainly extremely uncomfortable.

Moments later, she felt pressure at her entrance and then he pushed into her. She was tight—swollen. His cock felt bigger than usual because of it. The size of him and weight of him pressing down on her was oppressive. And as he began to thrust, each jolt compressed her head further into the desk. She was being compacted, diminished.

It was something she'd struggled against for years. As a Muggle born—a 'Mudblood'—being considered a second-class citizen, a lesser human, was at the core of all of her insecurities. _Why did people think she was so desperate to prove herself? Why was she such an 'insufferable know-it-all'?_ Because being something was far better than being nothing—better than being dismissed because of her origins—something that she had absolutely no control over.

And he was seeking to do it to her again—to make her feel lesser. The heat of anger, humiliation and pure physical pressure pooled in her face. Reaching behind her head, she tried to prise his fingers away but he tightened them.

"Stop it!" She clawed at him.

"Let go," he commanded.

She sobbed. _What was he talking about?_

He continued to plunge into her. She was helpless to do anything; he was simply too strong. She stopped struggling and just gave in—she had to let it be.

And that's when it happened. A strange lightness suddenly captured her, rolling like a wave through her entire body. And she started to breathe. Properly. Deeply. She sensed a release—as though she'd been trapped under a tremendous weight and had finally broken free.

And that weight, she suspected, was her sense of responsibility—her need to manage and control every element to keep her anxiety about failure in check. But in this helpless state, she'd had to relinquish it—to give it over to him.

Although she felt her body responding again, she was captured by the compelling notion that it no longer belonged to her. Her flesh had simply become a conduit for his intention. And his intention was to stop her from undermining the process, to trust him to know what to do. It was entirely foreign but it was a . . . huge . . . fucking . . . relief. Enough to bring tears to her eyes.

She began to shudder and the pressure on her neck lifted, his hand delving into her hair instead, rubbing soothingly against her scalp. His other hand slid down to massage her clitoris which was still enormous but more than ready to accept the stimulation.

As his rhythm accelerated, she felt the tightness in her core build—in contrast to the rest of her body which was practically boneless. Face wet with tears, she turned and nuzzled into his palm, rubbing herself like a cat into his caresses.

"Well done, Miss Granger." His voice was tight.

Then the force rubbing against her clitoris increased and she was lost.

Curling her head against the desk, she gasped as her body erupted with a second monumental orgasm. He was only a few strokes behind. Groaning with what sounded like equivalent relief, he came inside her, the fizz through his cock simultaneously electrifying her walls, making it all the more satisfying. Then his palms were on her back, strong thumbs rubbing the tension from her muscles as they both came down.

Gently pulling out, he climbed off the desk, helping her to the ground.

And when they were both standing on the cold floor she looked up into his dark, featureless face.

"I won't forget," she whispered.


	14. Marching Orders

A/N: So I'm back at work and it's crazy busy. I've also been organising birthdays and other stuff at this time of year. Anyway, I'm not complaining but I wanted to explain why things have slowed down a bit. Hope you enjoy this one, DSx

* * *

He'd have to stop sleeping on his stomach. Waking up every morning with his hard-on squashed against the mattress like a sausage sandwich was putting him in a bad mood. Especially since he could do nothing about it.

This morning had been particularly painful. Dreams of a certain person with a certain pair of lips sucking him off under his desk had induced a level of todger tumescence that wasn't nearly as funny as it sounded. In the throes of his dream state, he'd put the pain down to her vigorous sucking. And he'd been willing to withstand the mounting discomfort for obvious reasons, even as the ache had brought him worryingly close to orgasm. Fortunately he'd woken in time but with a throbbing, tender cock that could only be relieved with a bitingly cold shower—irritating him still further.

Yet he'd not set eyes upon her. Not since Friday evening. He'd chosen to take his meals in his room, unsure of how a public space like the Great Hall would accommodate the aftermath of their last encounter. He was quite confident that she'd be overthinking the entire episode, and no doubt managing to ruminate over his subsequent absence.

In fact, there was a good chance that, despite her apparent concedence at the time, she'd managed to overthink her way back into a recalcitrant position. It was another of the reasons why he was even less enthusiastic than usual about his first Potions class of the morning. She'd be there, the volume of her hair warning of her disposition.

As he dressed, he winced at the pain in his temple. Almost a week in the infirmary had improved him considerably, but the events of Friday night had set him back. He had been in no state to do what he did and yet he still believed it had been the right thing to do. She'd been close to falling apart under the strain. And whilst it had been a risk to present her with her own insecurities so flagrantly, he remained confident of the power of such an approach. She'd risen to the challenge. And despite what she may think, it had been about respect—respect that she was resilient enough to cope, insightful enough to understand and honest enough to let go.

He twisted the buttons closed firmly at his throat. Unfortunately, he could not attribute the same level of honesty to himself.

* * *

She wouldn't look at him.

Her gaze almost reached his on a number of occasions but fell away before making contact. And her hair was tied back—no longer an accurate barometer. _Not promising_.

He caught himself staring. It wouldn't do—not with Draco also throwing not-so-subtle glances in her direction. He'd been keeping an eye on the boy—aware of what had happened in the stairwell, and of the blow-up in Slughorn's class. Whilst he'd reinforced Draco's relocation to the opposite side of the room, he was still extremely wary. The boy was getting desperate. They all were.

The 'gatherings' on Friday nights in Lucius Malfoy's club were devised entirely to enable multiple Death Eaters to fulfil their enchantments with a single Muggle. Snape had fortunately managed to avoid the place thus far, although he was receiving increasing pressure from the others to attend.

The Dark Lord, however, had suspicions that the decree was not being met as intended and the constant threat that he would arrive unannounced had those in attendance worried. They would be lucky to escape with their lives if discovered.

He had been fortunate. He was fortunate. But for how long was, in effect, up to the person doing her damnedest to read the blackboard over his shoulder—without looking at him. He sighed inwardly before resuming his grading. _Back to square one_.

There was a burst of noisy conversation as the lesson ended and the students began packing up to leave. Normally he would demand that they depart quietly but he was over it—he just wanted them out of there.

She was lagging. Quite deliberately. _What was this? Another bollocking?_

As the last student slipped out the door, she approached. Her hesitant steps skirted the periphery of his vision as he focused on the parchment before him, scrawling a correction with a flourish of his quill.

She didn't speak, advancing slowly until her groin was hovering disconcertingly close to his elbow.

"Professor?"

He looked up with a subtle flex of his eyebrow as though he'd been unaware her presence.

"Miss Granger."

"I was . . . I wondered whether, perhaps, we could meet . . . earlier this week? I have something else to attend to . . . on Friday."

"Thursday?"

"Wednesday." The speed of the demand and the sudden heat in her gaze forced him to wipe his palm across his mouth to cover his smirk.

"Wednesday it is." He inclined his head.

"I appreciate it."

It sounded over-emphasised. As though she were referring to something more.

Backing away one step, and then another, she turned to leave before stopping.

"Oh, I . . . almost forgot."

"Yes?" He frowned at her back.

Spinning around, she approached him, a look of fear and determination on her face.

"I needed to give you this."

Thrusting a knee onto his chair, she grasped his shoulders and lunged at him, capturing his lips in her open mouth. He immediately pulled her onto his lap, fingers curling into her buttocks. One of her hands slid around the nape of his neck, squeezing tightly as she lapped into him, moaning. He was breathing heavily, sucking on her tongue and lips, relishing the taste that he already found quite intoxicating.

A rattle on the doorhandle had her catapulting off his lap a split second before the first student arrived for his next class. She ran trembling hands down the front of her skirt, smoothing it out. There was less hope for his trousers which were tenting so prominently, he had to flick his robes over his lap.

He cleared his throat. "We'll continue your tuition on Wednesday, Miss Granger."

"Yes, Professor," she replied breathlessly before lowering her head, turning and hurrying from the room.

He stared after her, drawing in deep breaths through his nose. There'd been a clear shift. The resentment and diminished, she'd softened. But the essence of her—fiery and demanding—still remained, her performance on his lap just now attesting to that.

However, rather than using her energy against him, it seemed that she might be finally prepared to work with him. The thought caused further strain on the burdened seams of his trousers. _Could this, in fact, be the best of both worlds?_

* * *

"Tap, tap."

Snape looked up, surprised at the unfamiliar surge in his chest. He wasn't expecting anyone at this time of night but, then again, perhaps he was . . .

He opened the door to find a silver snake-head hovering in his face.

"I rather thought you might be in bed, Severus." Lucius Malfoy smirked. "Getting a little satisfaction in the name of the Dark Lord."

"What do you want, Lucius?"

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Glaring at the blond, Snape finally took a reluctant step backwards. "Five minutes."

"Of course. I'd hate to take up too much of your _precious_ time." Malfoy swept past him before shrugging his coat off and throwing it casually across Severus' lounge.

"The purpose of my visit is, in fact, to ensure that there are no hard feelings after our little 'altercation' the other evening." He sauntered over to the bookshelves.

Snape snorted before propping himself against the mantle.

"The Dark Lord does enjoy a little gladiatorial wrangling at times. You understand it was nothing personal," Malfoy continued.

"Gladiatorial? I don't recall such encounters involving one combatant being bound and gagged."

Lucius turned to face him. "I didn't suggest that it was fair, Severus. It's 'bread and circuses' as far as the Dark Lord is concerned, and we are obliged to participate."

Snape merely glared, orange flames leaping in his black eyes.

"And I wish to offer you a piece of advice. You really must attempt to at least convey the _illusion_ of honesty. Otherwise you're unlikely to survive the next round of questioning."

"And of course you are the expert in honesty," Snape sneered.

"This game you're playing." Lucius advanced a step toward him. "Pitting one side against the other, the overtly covert spy, providing partial answers, using Occlumency. It's not a good look."

"I expect the Dark Lord' scrutiny. I don't expect my colleagues to relish dishing out his torture."

Lucius tapped the cane against his palm. "Not everyone wishes to tread that fine line, Severus. Some will choose to demonstrate unequivocally which side they are on."

Snape turned away in disgust.

"I am not the enemy," Malfoy spoke to his back.

"No more bottles of wine, Lucius?"

Silence.

Finally Malfoy sighed. "You really need to stop taking life so seriously, Severus. It was merely a trial—a test. You clearly passed. You must be taking . . . precautions."

Snape turned back to him. "And what if I wasn't?"

"Then you wouldn't be worth your salt as a Potions Master would you?"

"I'd like you to leave."

"There _is_ one more thing." Malfoy turned back to the shelves, unperturbed. "The second purpose of my visit is to invite you to our gathering this Friday evening. We have a tasty little piece lined up—definitely clean. I'll even let you have second show with her. As you can imagine, for those further down the pecking order it gets a little . . . damp underfoot—so to speak."

"Sounds charming," Snape replied tersely. "But that won't be required."

"Not required?" Malfoy delivered a cold sneer. "Isn't that fascinating? I've been pondering the apparent ease with which you've been meeting these . . . requirements." He moved away a few paces, trailing the head of his cane along a row of books. "I could conceive of the occasional sympathy fuck—even Muggles have a soft spot for a sad case. But, I must admit you're looking remarkably well. You were blasted into a pulp little more than a week ago, you have the strain of one of the most limiting and ruthless decrees hanging over your head, and yet you seem extraordinarily . . . relaxed."

Snape held his silvery gaze.

The blond wizard suddenly lifted his nose and inhaled deeply. Moving forward a couple of paces, he sniffed again before taking another step and extending the snake's head to flick up the roll-top of Snape's bureau. Then he leaned forward and pulled open a drawer. A moment later he pulled open another.

"Well, well, well . . . What have we here?"

Reaching into the drawer he pulled out a piece of cloth—pale pink.

 _Oh . . . fuck._

"Knickers?"

Malfoy brought the cloth to his face and inhaled deeply. "I've always had the most remarkable nose for pussy," he marvelled. "And this one is . . . rather special."

He turned to Snape with a grin. "Young . . . clean . . . very clean, in fact . . . a virgin?"

Snape's jaw cracked.

"Ahhh, she is!" Malfoy raised an eyebrow, chuckling with amusement. "At least she was. Aren't you the lucky fellow?"

He sniffed them gratuitously again, lingering over the gusset. "Very aroused too. I wonder how you managed that. Did you go down on her?"

Snape strode forward and snatched the knickers from his hand. "I've had enough of your rubbish, Malfoy. Get out."

Lucius's eyes widened, the fingers that had been holding the knickers curling into a fist around the snake-head.

"Protective." He narrowed his gaze, appraising the dark wizard as he took a step toward him. "Even . . . possessive. Who is she?"

Snape stuffed the knickers into his pocket. "No one you know."

"Really? And yet it's likely to be someone in this very castle. Or someone you've seen fit to bring here."

"You may be surprised to discover that underwear can actually be removed from a person and travel separately from them," Snape informed him, moving to the door to open it.

"You're suggesting you brought them back with you from one of your . . . outings?" Malfoy smirked. "That's just a fraction pervy, don't you think?"

"Unlike your exceptionally refined olfactory performance, just now?"

"Yes, but the difference is that I'm a Death Eater, Severus—this sort of behaviour is in my blood. You, on the other hand, no longer have the . . . inclination."

Severus grasped the door handle.

"When you were first awarded the Dark Mark, you were as ruthless as the rest of us." Malfoy peered down his nose at the dark wizard, advancing slowly towards him. "But you've become soft in your old age, and I sense a little . . . squeamish. It's as though you no longer approve of the Dark Lord's methods. And on occasion I sense a proclivity for, shall we say, 'sentimental attachment'—even fanciful notions of . . . romance? Imagine if the Dark Lord knew what we both know? How he would choose to use that information to keep you . . . in hand."

"Get the fuck out of here," Severus snarled, yanking open the door.

"You want to prove me wrong?" Lucius approached until he was only inches from Snape, his silver eyes flashing. "Share her with me."


	15. Keeping the Books in Order

She burst into his chambers. Without being invited. Without even knocking. He should have been annoyed but he soon understood why she'd been rushing. Breathing heavily, she leaned against the door, the ghost of a smile on her face. Her hands were braced tightly across her front, cinching her robes together.

Bottom lip slipping between her teeth in a nervous gesture he'd witnessed a thousand times in the classroom, she slowly opened her robes to reveal . . . _Merlin's bollocks!_

A matching set—satin or something—a burgundy slash across her breasts and . . . barely covering her mons.

The hand in his trouser pocket clenched. _Didn't she understand what a precarious position she was in?_ He was a wizard, more powerful than most, in his sexual prime, who had ejaculated only once a week for months. And somehow she felt it safe practice to enter his chambers . . . without permission . . . looking like . . .

He was upon her in a flash. And it was clearly what she'd been hoping for, her brown eyes shining as he lunged down to meet her lips, already engorged and deliciously flushed. As he pressed her bodily against the door, tasting her mouth—obviously freshly cleaned—he made short work of the underwear. As attractive as it was, it was simply wrapping, a garnish on what he'd found himself increasingly desperate over the past days to touch—to rub himself against, to thrust himself into.

And she seemed to possess a matching level of desire, unyielding at his lips but accommodating at his hands. It was perfect really . . . if they were lovers. But they weren't—and this level of intensity was definitely not what the Order had had in mind when sanctioning—and even endorsing—their union.

 _But they were sexual beings, for Merlin's sake!_ _What did the Order anticipate would happen?_ _That they would persist with only the most rudimentary interactions to satisfy the requirements of the enchantment?_

Perhaps. No doubt they expected him as her Professor to restrain himself, to direct proceedings such that things didn't escalate . . . or deteriorate—so that when she grabbed his hand and guided it down between her legs, he didn't thrust as deeply and emphatically into her deliciously tight opening as he could, tugging roughly at her nipples with zealous fingers, sucking on her tongue as she almost collapsed on trembling thighs.

It might be inappropriate, but the truth was that a herd of wild horses wouldn't be dragging him away from her at his point. Not with her pinned against the door, pert breasts brushing against his, now bare, chest, thanks to the efforts of her frantic fingers—legs spread to accommodate him, gentle pressure on his shoulder, encouraging him downward.

He'd be going down—there was never a question. But he first needed her to open his trousers. His cock had been through too much that week to expect it to remain confined at its most excruciatingly rigid. Its final emancipation into her soft, warm hands had him shuddering and sighing in equal measure.

Sliding his palms down her slim body, he decided he needed to improve his access—to open her up sufficiently so that he could give her what she wanted. Reaching sideways, he pulled a book—a hefty tome—from a nearby shelf and reached down to place the spine under the back of her knee before lifting it sideways and using a Sticking Charm to adhere it to the door. She now stood on one leg, the other lifted and slung over the book. It would be enough—for now.

 _Thank Merlin_. She'd been worried that he wasn't going to do it again; that it might have been a one-off—part of his dominance display. But he was on the way down. And even the journey was . . . extraordinary. His mouth attended to parts of her that she wasn't sure had ever been touched in her life—at least she couldn't remember ever being aware of them.

Moist kisses smouldered along her collar bone, his breath drifting into the hollow above before being joined by his tongue, flickering out to prime her, making her feel tasty, edible, even delicious. She automatically curled her pelvis against him, a primal urge to thrust, without anything to even drive against, nothing to draw into her—at least not yet.

His sojourn at her breast was another revelation. Both strong hands were against her shoulders, holding her in place as he lifted and dragged one nipple between his tongue and palate, the rest of her breast bouncing and stretching with each undulation. The same treatment to her other nipple left both red and glistening like glazed strawberries. Even she found the sight against the creamy pallor of her flesh enticing. It was almost a pity she couldn't access them herself.

Then the fog descended as he crested her ribs and trailed soft-lipped kisses down her clenching abdomen.

"Ohh . . . farg . . . gohh . . ." was all she could manage as his tongue suddenly plunged into her navel. _Who would have thought that was sexy?_ _A lint repository?_ But fuck . . . he may as well have been inside her pussy, it was so visceral.

And finally he was there. That tongue that had whipped her so mercilessly in class was now doing the same to her clitoris—and rather than anger or humiliation, she was feeling enraptured. She couldn't deny it—it was the part that had stayed with her most vividly since the last time. The sense that she could feel both tenderly tickled and violently plundered by his mouth was quite astounding. And now that she'd given up resisting him, the abandonment she'd allowed herself was scarily liberating.

As he flattened his tongue and proceeded to deliver long, slow licks from close to her back passage, all the way up to her clitoris, she clutched at the spine of the book with one hand and buried the other in his hair, even feeling brave enough to apply gentle pressure when he arrived at the spots she wanted him to attend to most.

Without hesitation, he complied. When she curled her fingers into his scalp, he did the same to her pussy, twisting and roiling around inside her until she was gasping and garbling like the Hogwarts Express on a downhill run. And even without his fingers inside her, she found she was already close to coming—his tongue more than enough to take her there.

But despite the promise of another monumental orgasm she suddenly found herself intent upon having his cock. She'd become accustomed to the security of its tight fit inside her. Admittedly, it had originally scared her—a huge, blunt weapon to plunder her—to ensure her submission. But now she trusted him not to hurt her. And after their previous interaction, she was no longer afraid of giving him control; she had a sense that he knew what she needed, even more perhaps than she did.

However, that understanding didn't stop her from feeling a strange possessiveness over him right now—as though he belonged there, inside her, even beyond her responsibility to him . . . totally ridiculous really considering the true nature of their relationship.

But the words were on her lips before she could stop them.

"Please fuck me."

He halted his ministrations, looking up at her.

If there was a more enticing sight in the world, he was yet to behold it. Every part of her was flushed, ripe, glistening, heaving or trembling. She was exquisitely aroused—acutely prepared—for him.

Rising, he reached out for a second large book, bringing it down and easing it under her other knee. Grasping both books at once, he proceeded to slide them up the door until her pussy was at groin height, aligned with the bobbing head of his member. Both legs were now hooked over the spines, spreading her wide while she supported herself by clutching each book tightly with her hands.

Grasping the base of his cock, his stomach relaxed with the promise of finally being able to bring it some relief.

She suddenly reached out and tapped his penis like a naughty pet.

"Histomalleus," she reminded him. "Wand in my robe."

He sighed inwardly. At least someone was thinking about the purpose of their engagement, not just about getting their rocks off.

Crouching down, he retrieved her wand and she used it to create a sixth digit next to her little finger. He didn't question it. Perhaps it was to assist her to hold on. Whatever, despite the penis smack, he was grateful that she'd remembered.

Tunnelling one hand into her hair, he grasped a fistful whilst dragging his engorged helmet up and down through her folds until it was coated in silky arousal.

Then as he pushed just the tip inside her, his mouth closed over hers, tongue dipping into her, prodding in the same exploratory manner. His hips gradually came into action, rocking gently—his tongue laving in time. She whimpered into his mouth.

It wasn't absolutely required, of course, this teasing. She was as wet as she could possibly be. But her expressions of desire, her need, was the vindication that he somehow still required. And it made him feel a certain way . . . something he hadn't felt in a long time—a sense of being wanted for no other reason than pure desire. It might not be fair to use her to soothe his old and deep-set wounds but he figured that humans spend their lives constantly attending to their insecurities, whether consciously or subconsciously, through their interactions with others.

And she did seem to enjoy it. Her pussy was already convulsing around him, clutching rhythmically as she sucked his tongue into her mouth. And the sounds she made—throaty gasps, breathy whispers and needy moans—were a constant and pleasing symphony. But her mounting expressions of blatant desire also tapped directly into his own, to the point that he found he could no longer hold back. Soon his thrusts were bottoming out inside her, firmly pounding her against the unyielding wood of the door. But rather than exhibiting discomfort, her head rocked back as her mouth dropped open in ecstasy, thighs snapping in with each incursion, as though he was triggering her to fold.

Then he changed his rhythm, slowing at the end of each thrust to grind against her clitoris with his pubic bone. Her breathing grew ragged. At some point she must have released the books, because her arms were now wrapped tightly around his neck, and she was moaning into his chest. Even that sensation, her warm breath shuddering against his perspiration-slicked skin was erotic. And for the first time he felt he might even come before her—the desire to release was just too great.

But then her breaths turned short and guttural, telling him that she was very close. Her fingernails curled into sharp points against his neck. He drove into her, the hollow thuds of her body against the door a mounting ovation to her impending eruption.

"Oh Gods . . . Oh . . . Sev . . . er . . . usss," she gasped as she came.

His balls surged, ejecting into her convulsing channel, time and again. Her whole body seized around him, jerking as she clung on, arms and thighs wrapping around him like a python. He continued to thrust as fresh waves of seed emerged—her sheath squeezing him, wringing him dry, and his balls complying in the knowledge that this would be their only opportunity to drain themselves for another week at least. The enchantment within his shaft fizzled and subsided. Relief washed over him.

 _She'd called him Severus._ For some reason that was the first thing that entered his post-orgasmic mind. In fact, it was the only thing—hanging there like a neon sign, signifying something that was, most likely, nothing. As he watched her—head propped back against the door, strands of hair clinging to her face, sucking in air—she suddenly blinked and opened her eyes, before smiling up at him with shy amusement.

"I've always loved books," she said.

And he laughed. She'd caught him off guard—with his defences down, awash with relief. It suddenly seemed hugely funny—more funny than it really should have been. As he tipped back his head and allowed himself to indulge in a deep, rolling peal of laughter, he could feel her convulsing against him too; she'd obviously been similarly struck.

And it wasn't polite laughter at all. It was snorting, helpless laughter that left them both with tears in their eyes, gasping for breath.

When they'd finally recovered, she looked at him seriously.

"Do you think I might stay? Just for a few minutes . . . to recuperate? I really don't think I can stand."

He was still smiling. It was not at all a familiar state for his face, but he just couldn't help it. Hooking his hands under her buttocks, he lifted and carried her, still clinging to him like a sloth, into the bedroom, before sitting on the bed.

In one motion, he twisted and reclined, flicking the covers over them both so she was now lying on top of him, in much the same position as when she'd first ridden him to completion—jaw against his solar plexus, ear to his heart.

She'd get up soon. As soon as she'd recuperated. But as his heart slowed, so did her breathing. Her hand rested upon his chest; she flexed it slightly, hazily watching her sixth finger curl into his fine hair. Despite her tiredness, she reflected upon the anomaly and how appropriate it felt—an externalisation of the oddness that was permanently within her—as a misfit in both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds.

But what struck her most was the fact that both her external and internal eccentricities had been on display—she'd shown practically all of them to the man breathing gently beneath her, and yet he held her firmly in his arms, as though unwilling to let her go.

It felt like acceptance, but it could simply be comfort, or desperation. Whatever it was, something deep inside her suddenly released—it was an unravelling of the tight ball of tension—that associated with her constant need to prove herself. And it was so fundamental, so deeply satisfying that her eyelids suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

She would just close them for a fraction of a second. She would just float on his warmth until she could . . . until she was . . . just . . . until . . .


	16. Law and Order

A/N: Happy Holidays to you all. Thank you so much for your continued support. Stay safe and I'll see you again soon. DSx

* * *

 _Hair. In her face_. Lifting her head, Hermione blinked into the murky light. _Shit!_ She was still there—lying on top of him. And he was obviously still there—lying beneath her. And the grey dawn filtering through his high windows told her they'd been like that all night.

He appeared to be sleeping, face turned to the side, a swathe of dark hair cutting across one pale cheek, and since his arms had slipped down in the night, she found that it wasn't hugely difficult to disentangle herself. Carefully, she pushed herself off him and crawled backwards, gently replacing the covers as she retreated.

Her joints, particularly her knees, felt stiff and creaky after the strain of holding herself braced against the door the previous evening. But that recollection also brought with it a host of other feelings that were far from uncomfortable.

Creeping into the lounge room, she located her underwear in the corner where it had been cast aside within moments of her arrival, before proceeding to wrap herself in her robes. A fire would have been more than welcome but it felt a bit presumptuous to take such liberties in his chambers, and so she settled for casting a warming incantation.

Two large tomes were still stuck to the door. In the light of day they appeared odd, but gave away nothing of their lascivious intent. She thought about her position on them, clinging onto the spines, fully open to him. It was pretty bloody creative really—not the sort of thing she would expect of a Potions Professor. _But did someone suddenly become asexual just because they had attained a certain level of professional responsibility?_ The answer was, of course, 'No.' And although the level and scope of his obligation was higher and broader than most, he clearly hadn't become sexually stunted because of it—at least not that she could tell.

Her own prior experience might have been nil but she was quite confident that he would be considered more than adept in that department. It wasn't something she wished to dwell upon but the spark that flared inside when she reflected upon how aroused he seemed to effortlessly make her, was enough for her to realise that she was actually grateful that it was he whom she'd been asked to service. It could have been worse. She shuddered. So much worse.

Casting a second warming incantation to counter her thoughts, Hermione scanned the room. The shelf from which he'd removed the two books now looked untidy compared to the neat rows marching around the remaining walls. Kneeling down to straighten them, a book called _'Potions Uncorked'_ caught her eye. Sliding it out, she flipped the pages open and was immediately struck by what was inside—handwritten notes—everywhere. Fine black script filled the margins, the header, the footer. Some of the original text had been crossed out and others passages were underlined. There were circles, arrows, question marks, and what appeared to be corrections—statements like 'Not the case!' and 'Temperature dependent' or 'Only if picked in moonlight.'

As she flipped through the pages, she discovered that annotations were crammed throughout the entire book—his thoughts, ideas, inspirations, even people's names. It was fascinating. Glancing up, she scanned the books before her and pulled out another two. They were the same—completely filled with his commanding, black strokes.

She thought back to her own books, stacked wherever she could find a space in her room, and a perpetual source of annoyance for her room mates. And whilst she would never dream of writing in them, her own study notes were just like this—copious inspirations, thoughts and ideas, questions, corrections, names, dates. It was as though they had been living this life in parallel, pouring themselves out onto pages, working through their complex inner lives. And when she scanned the multitude of books present, she had a sense of a distributed existence detailed throughout. She suddenly wanted to read them—all of them. But only his words—tiny clues to the essence of—

"I would prefer it if you didn't read those."

Hermione gasped. He was standing in the doorway, dressed in a black dressing gown, hands thrust firmly into his pockets.

"Oh, I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to . . ." Leaning forward, she quickly slid each book back into the case.

"I have clean copies of most. For loan," he stated.

She stood with difficulty, realising that she'd been sitting awkwardly for too long.

"I was actually . . . more interested in the notes—the ones you'd written," she admitted.

A fleeting expression crossed his face but it was too rapid for her to discern its exact nature— _Anger? Fear? Sadness?_

"Let me know if there is a specific text that I can provide you with."

It was so formal. The distance was back. Perhaps he considered it too personal—for her to have read his inner thoughts. Still, it wasn't as though she'd perused his private diary or anything.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

He sighed before sliding his gaze around the shelves. "Some were lost . . . stolen . . . Many years ago, a handful of my books were taken . . . and they are . . . essentially irreplaceable."

She understood.

"If my study notes were stolen, I'd be devastated."

That same expression returned, a brief flicker rippling across his features— _pain?_

Stepping forward quickly, she tapped the spine of ' _Potions Uncorked_.' "Perhaps if you have a copy of this one, we can discuss it in our next tuition session?"

He crossed his arms before subtly inclining his head. "I'll owl it to you."

She stared at him. She'd fallen asleep in his embrace, smelling his skin, feeling him breathing against her. And yet here they were. Strangers again. She found herself pulling her robes tighter around herself as he stood stock-still—a closed wall of black. It was confounding. He was seemingly so private about some things but surprisingly open about others—even if it was mainly communicated in actions, rather than words.

 _And where had Severus gone?_ —the man who had laughed despite himself; whom she had witnessed intensely raw and passionate, but also caught in moments of exquisite tenderness. Despite his stern countenance and defensive stance, she remained hopeful that he was still in there somewhere, behind the mask, peeking through.

"Monday, then? In the Library?" she asked, taking a hesitant step toward the door.

 _How should she leave? After spending an evening having deeply erotic sex against his door, sleeping on his chest? Was it enough to simply stroll back to her room like nothing had happened? As though it meant nothing? Should she even say goodbye?_

"Not the library."

She stopped. "Where, then?"

"Here—in my chambers."

"I thought the whole point was for us to be seen together." She frowned.

"Not anymore."

"Why? Has something happened?"

 _Yes. Lucius Malfoy had happened_. Severus thought back to the moment he'd removed her knickers from his pocket and thrust them into Lucius' stomach. 'Take her,' he'd said. 'I no longer need her.' The older wizard had clenched his jaw in anger but appeared far less sure of himself. With a sneer, he'd scrunched the pink fabric in his fist before leaving in a flourish of blond hair and expensive robes.

"Don't travel anywhere alone unless absolutely necessary," Severus told her. "Are you still taking the long way to the dungeons?"

She nodded, feeling increasingly concerned. "Is there something I should know?"

"Where did you buy your underwear?"

"Sorry?"

"The underwear . . . that you were wearing last night. Did you leave Hogwarts to buy it?"

"No . . . I already had them," she said. "I didn't buy them especially for . . ." She tailed off as she felt the flush rolling up her cheeks.

"I didn't necessarily expect . . ." He seemed just as uncomfortable. "It's just that you mustn't leave the castle without an escort."

"Perhaps you could explain why?"

"A precaution," he stated simply. "The Order has prioritised your protection at this time."

 _Something had happened. Clearly_. But she had a sense that she wouldn't be getting a lot more from him.

"So am I safe to return to my room now?" she asked.

"Yes."

He'd follow. He always did.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, before turning back to the door.

"What about Friday?"

"What about it?" she huffed.

"You mentioned plans."

 _Had she?_ _She couldn't remember making any plans to—Oh . . . shit_.

She'd made it up. She'd pretended she had another appointment—just to see him sooner.

He was frowning expectantly at her, black eyes searching hers.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and regarded him with as much dignity as she could muster. "I happened to want to want to see you. I apologise for doing so under false pretences."

His mouth twitched as he ran his index finger across his bottom lip.

"Next time," he rumbled darkly. "Just . . . ask."

And he was there. A swift ripple of robes and his arms were around her, his hungry lips capturing hers. And as she melted, mind turning to mush, she clung to one single thought—he was in there. Severus was still in there.

"I expected you to come earlier, Miss Granger." Professor McGonagall poured tea into Hermione's cup. "The owls I sent weren't rhetorical—although your failure to respond suggests that you interpreted them as such. I hope you understand that I didn't wish to pry . . . or interfere in such a delicate process. And the headmaster has kept me abreast of his conversations with Professor Snape. But I've been extremely worried about you. Please tell me—how you are coping?"

Hermione tried to look burdened under the old woman's clear, green gaze. Admittedly, she would have done a far better job had she been summoned to a meeting with her a week or two previous.

"I'm . . . I'm managing," she murmured as she stirred milk into her tea.

Professor McGonagall nodded, taking a small bird-like sip of her own. "I feared we may have asked too much of you. It really is an unimaginable circumstance. I wonder if it will forever tarnish your perception of the Order—your trust in its intentions?"

"I do have reservations," Hermione answered truthfully.

"Of course." Professor McGonagall blinked rapidly, appearing quite distressed before asking what was obviously a difficult question.

"Is he . . . Is the Professor . . . gentle with you?"

 _Well, actually no_. Hermione thought back to him banging her head against the desk and thumping her into the door. She knew she was flushing—both upstairs and down.

"He's been . . . adequately . . . considerate."

It was hardly an answer. _But what could she say?_ That she'd thought about little else since leaving his rooms two days earlier. _That she actually looked forward to having sex with him? That she wanted to do it more . . . more than required to satisfy the enchantment?_

Professor McGonagall was looking at her hard, her lips puckered with displeasure. Clearly she thought Hermione was implying that he'd hurt her.

"Do I need to have a word with the Professor?" she asked, placing her cup back in its saucer.

"No," Hermione answered too quickly. "It's . . . it's fine. Really. I've accepted that this is a necessity. And I believe that Professor Snape is appreciative of what I am doing . . . for the Order."

Minerva continued her shrewd appraisal before softening a little. "He is a good man. Under all of that . . . strictness and severity. It might be difficult to believe but he really was a very sensitive boy when he arrived at Hogwarts all those years ago. I truly wondered how he would cope. And sometimes . . . he didn't." She looked down into her cup. "It was Albus who insisted that he should stay. Severus had wanted to leave—on more than one occasion. He'd sobbed in the Headmaster's office . . . I remember standing outside, unsure of whether to intervene. I couldn't help but feel protective over him—he really felt that he didn't belong. But Albus took him under his tutelage. He challenged him—developed his mind. And, of course, discovered that he was truly brilliant." Her expression turned distant. "Brilliant but deeply troubled." Then she straightened, seeming to remember herself. "Of course, this is not to go any further. I . . . I really shouldn't have shared such details. I just don't want you to resent him."

 _Resent him?_ Resentment was no longer something that Hermione felt. Attraction would be closer to the mark. An increasing level of attraction that made her wonder why she'd never seen it before. Perhaps it had been his perpetual grumpiness. And the fact that he seemed to hate her. But now that she'd had a glimpse beyond his austere demeanour, she found him rather striking and . . . surprisingly sexy. In fact, she couldn't look at any part of him without remembering where it had been. His hands inside her, his hair clutched in her fingers, his lips . . . everywhere.

She shifted in her seat.

"I don't resent Professor Snape," she informed the older woman. "He's doing what's required—to survive."

Professor McGonagall nodded slowly. "And by all accounts he was lucky to make it through last week. Madam Pomfrey says that his injuries this time were extremely severe."

"Injuries?"

"Yes, Dear. He spent almost the entire week in the infirmary after returning from the Dark Lord. Were you not aware?"

Hermione thought back to her meltdown the previous week—how angry she'd been with him for ignoring her owls—for not being available when she'd needed him. And he'd merely informed her that he had been 'busy'—not that he'd almost died.

Her eyes stung. She felt like a selfish bitch. She was a selfish bitch. And now all she wanted was to see him again. To tell him she was sorry. To kiss him. To show him with her body that she cared what happened to him. To continue to save him.

But she didn't want it to stop there. She wanted more. _And what if he did too? Would that just put him at greater risk?_ _If the Order found out that they were having sex beyond the need to satisfy the enchantment, would they stop them from seeing each other altogether?_ They were still student and teacher after all. _And then where would that leave him? At the whim of the Dark Lord's despicable decree once again?_

She raised herself on shaky legs. "I need to go."

Professor McGonagall stood but Hermione ducked her head and rushed for the door before she could say another word.

 _It was unfair_. She hurried down the corridor, blinking back tears. _It was so bloody unfair_.


	17. Handing Out Orders

A/N: Thank you for the kind holiday wishes, I know this is a busy time for you all. So after everyone left on Christmas day, I managed to get a few hours of, slightly drunken, writing in. I hope you enjoy it. DSx

P.S. This chapter is my tribute to the inspired video artworks - 'Hysterical Literature.'

* * *

The copy of _'Potions Uncorked'_ that he'd Owled through was certainly clean. She doubted it had ever been opened. And it turned out to be far less interesting than the first time she's read it. There were no notes . . . no bold statements capturing some sudden flash of inspiration, no insights to pique her interest. Still, she had it tucked under her arm as she hurried toward the Dungeons, wondering what the hell she was going to do with it.

Their 'tuition sessions' to date had really been nothing of the sort. The earlier ones had amounted to little more than snide arguments. They'd missed quite a few recently. And now that the venue had shifted to his chambers, she wondered if the intention of the sessions might change. _Was he actually going to teach her something?_

She wasn't averse to the idea as she'd certainly felt her academic focus slipping in recent months. She also harboured misgivings, however, as she was no longer confident of her ability to sit in close proximity to him without feeling somewhat distracted. Certainly the nature of their last few interactions didn't leave much room for quality educational cogitation.

She'd also held off trying to see him despite her desperate desire to do so. It hadn't taken her long to realise that she couldn't very well apologise without him suspecting that he'd been discussed. And the fact that he'd shared virtually nothing with her to date, suggested that his injuries at the hands of the Dark Lord were likely to be something else he would prefer to keep private.

They did, however, need to talk—even if it seemed to be the most difficult thing of all for them to do. The tenuous undercurrent of something more—the inference of genuine mutual attraction that seemed to have woven itself into their sexual relationship, although welcome on her part, wasn't enough to sustain her. She really needed some answers. And, no doubt, so did he.

So she shook out the nervous tension as she faced his door, and knocked. Moments later it was opened—he delivered a courteous nod. It was . . . almost normal.

"Hello."

"Good evening, Miss Granger."

 _Fuck_. _She couldn't do this._

"Please call me Hermione."

She was on edge already. He could tell just by looking at her. Hair volume up. Brow furrow down. Shoulders rigid. And her tone—stripped of pretence. She was clearly there to have it out with him. He was somewhat surprised it hadn't happened sooner.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Not wine."

 _Did she know?_ Her expression was wary but he doubted Dumbledore would have discussed the poisoned bottle with her.

"Tea?"

"Yes. I'd love that . . . Severus."

He held her gaze. He hadn't imagined it—a genuine escalation.

"Of course."

 _Did it extend beyond the sex? Beyond their recent intensification?_ _Was she inferring a desire to deepen their relationship?_ Part of him, of course, wanted it, but another part was even less sure now of what he could offer her. A cup of tea would have to suffice—for now.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a tray with a teapot and jug, cups, saucers, and a sugar bowl from the lower shelf of his drinks cabinet, setting them upon a table with two chairs that he'd moved into the middle of the room.

Hermione was somewhat surprised that he hadn't called upon the services of the House Elves but she was increasingly discovering his preference for self-sufficiency. As a double agent it probably served him well.

Gesturing to the chair beside him, he took a seat. Hermione slid _'Potions Uncorked'_ onto the table.

"How did you find it?" He nodded to the book.

"The parts I read were a little . . . bland." Her eyes flickered up to his as she sat. _His copy would have been far better._

"I agree."

 _Of course he did. He'd practically re-written it._

"Did you ever get your stolen books back?"

His mouth firmed into a thin line. "No."

It was only one word but she already knew better than to push it.

He handed her a cup of tea and she found herself focusing on his hands—those very, very impressive hands—both professionally and . . . privately.

As unhelpful as it was, she suddenly felt it . . . a stirring deep inside. And the sense of despair that accompanied it hit her like a Bludger to the stomach. She wanted him—which was really her own problem, plenty of people wanted those they couldn't have. The issue was that she _could_ have him. But only on the terms of the Dark Lord. Only on the terms of the Order. And she was afraid that if he wanted her too, they would be caught in an even more agonising tryst—if that was at all possible.

He sensed something brewing. She was watching him spoon sugar into her cup and then his own—adding a dash of milk.

"You remembered."

"Sorry?"

"You know how I have my tea . . . From Madam Puddifoot's."

He knew a lot about her. More than he cared to let on.

"We take it the same. I should remember."

She was quiet again.

"Do you mind if I call you Severus?" she asked finally.

"No."

"I wouldn't call you that in class," she added.

"Of course."

"Will you call me Hermione?"

"If you wish."

"Yes, I do."

He watched her over the rim of his cup. More thinking.

"Can the enchantment be fulfilled more than once in a week?"

 _There it was—cutting straight to the chase_. His chest tightened.

"It already has been."

"What do you mean?"

"We met on a Friday, and then the following Wednesday."

Her eyes shifted up and to the left. She was recalling.

Then she took a sip of tea.

He felt like a cowardly bastard—letting her force the conversation. But he just couldn't go there—for many reasons.

"I'd like to," she murmured into her cup—so quietly that he almost missed it.

He could have asked her to repeat it—she was probably expecting him to. But that would simply prolong what was already a patently difficult conversation. He wouldn't even ask her to explain. He already knew.

"As would I."

She looked up, her expression hopeful. His chest squeezed even tighter.

"But I really don't think it would be wise to persist in such a manner."

Blinking. Too rapidly. She was holding back tears.

"However, we can continue to meet—like this."

"For ' _tuition_ ' _?_ " she ground out, pushing her cup away.

She was getting ready to leave.

"Of sorts."

She glared at him.

"Accio."

A book flew from one of the shelves and slapped into his raised palm.

"Read." He tossed it onto the table before her. "Out loud."

It was their third year potions text—a clean copy. She already knew it back to front.

"I don't need to—"

"Read," he demanded.

Huffing, she flipped the book open to the middle. The first recipe she came to was one for relieving anxiety. It didn't work very well—at least not for the type of anxiety she had—she'd already tried it.

Propping her chin on her hand, she began reading in a bored tone. "The ingredients for the Tension Relief potion are derived from those used to prepare the Rapid Sleep potion but are necessarily milder due to the . . ."

Her breath caught. He'd moved closer. And his fingertips were now trailing lightly up her inner thigh. She'd worn her skirt . . . wondering if . . .

"Rea-d." The last letter popped off his tongue. She couldn't help glancing up to see the aftermath on his lips . . . hovering, parted deliciously . . . she really wanted to—

". . . the lesser nature of the intended effect," she continued quickly as she realised he was about to berate her again.

She swallowed.

"Imbibers of this potion will be granted almost instantaneous . . ." She groaned.

His fingers had continued on and were now tickling gently up and down her knickers, fingering the seam between her pussy lips.

She sat up straight, her legs drifting slightly apart.

". . . relief from the tension that currently afflicts them."

Sighing breathily, she continued. "Contraindications for this potion include those already taking potions to combat insomnia . . ."

He pulled her knickers aside and slipped one digit between her folds, brushing against her clitoris.

Her eyes widened but she managed to focus on the text before her, suddenly understanding why he'd given her a book she was familiar with.

As she pushed out the words, his finger simultaneously pushed deeper until it was nudging at her opening. Another moan disrupted her fluency as he entered. She eventually recommenced—more slowly. Two fingers were inside her now, confidently delving in and out. Her voice was inversely assured, wavering with each stroke until she was forced to stop.

She ventured a glance at him. It was a mistake. The intensity of his gaze, like two pools of black fire, made her trembling hands even more agitated. Pressing both against the page, she resumed. And that's when his thumb descended onto her clitoris—rubbing the nub which she could already feel was extremely swollen as his fingers continued to plunge into her.

The pitch of her voice rose. She bent her head closer to the page, attempting to keep her gaze steady. She realised then that the distraction of reading meant that her body was responding automatically, without her capacity to intervene. Everything she felt was caused by pure stimulation, not her mind's interpretation of it. And it meant that the building sensation was . . . extreme.

Breathing heavily, she squeezed the words out, grasping the seat of the chair with one hand to assist the natural rocking of her hips which she felt quite unable to control.

Doggedly she continued but it was a losing battle, each sentence punctuated by the requirement to draw frequent deep breaths.

He sped up and she could hear the sound of her pussy's obvious enjoyment at being pounded up to his knuckles.

A series of guttural grunts erupted from her. She braced her shaking hands against the table top.

"Unhhh . . . uhhh . . . Gods!"

Her eyes closed and her mouth dropped open as she came, the chair rocking and scraping against the floor as she was seized by a succession of violent convulsions. Drawing gasping breaths, she continued to ride his fingers, a patch of dampness spreading beneath her. The power of her orgasm seemed to eject more and more from her body, his fingers continuing to thrust and agitate throughout.

When the final contraction quaked through her, her head pitched backwards and a groan of relief escaped her lips. She felt him withdraw. After a few moments, she managed to crack her eyes open, discovering that he was still intently watching her. Then he slowly brought his hand to his mouth and proceeded to lick the base of his index finger. Her channel twitched again. He was tasting her. He'd done it before, far more intimately than he was now, but for some reason it felt incredibly erotic. Sucking the digit into his mouth, his eyelids shuttered slightly, giving the impression that he was enjoying and savouring every last drop—an image that burned so deeply into her, she knew she wouldn't forget it—ever.

"When will you return, Hermione?" His impossibly low voice, and her name upon it, was liquid desire.

"Friday," she whimpered.

"Friday?"

"Wednesday."

He inclined his head as though he'd been expecting it.

She gave a shuddering sigh.

And, even then, it couldn't come soon enough.


	18. Gag Order

A/N: Just to clarify for those of you asking. This is my version of 6th year HP (HBP). Some elements are canon compliant and others are obviously my own. I probably won't be elaborating much further on the context outside of the events depicted in this story so I hope that makes sense. DSxx

* * *

 _Considerate_. That's the word that kept coming back to her.

Hermione scanned her Arithmancy text but as soon as she started reading, she felt his warm, sensuous hand slipping between her thighs. Squirming at her desk, she turned to see if she was still alone. Everyone must still be in classes—or in the common room. She sighed. It really wasn't the best place to masturbate. In fact, there was very little room unless she perched herself right on the edge of her chair.

But she'd found herself succumbing to the ever-increasing need over the past weeks. It seemed counterintuitive because she'd never had so much sex in her life—obviously. And she would have expected herself to be satiated by what she was getting. But, in fact, the opposite seemed to be the case—the more sex she had, the more she seemed to want it.

 _But was it the sex or was it him?_

 _Considerate_. It came back to her again. He really was exceptionally _considerate_. Ever since she'd left his chambers, she'd been wondering how many boys her age would have done what he'd done. She doubted any would have pulled off something so bookishly erotic as he had anyway, but the fact that he'd brought her to orgasm and been satisfied with a goodbye kiss—despite the mammoth erection desperately trying to burst through his trousers—it was . . . _considerate_.

And she wanted to do something equally considerate in return. She'd been practising. Yawning, she stretched her jaw which was still sore . . . she may have practised a little too much. Still, she felt he deserved it.

And for her diligent work, she deserved . . .

Glancing over her shoulder a final time, she pulled up the front of her skirt and slipped her fingers down the front of her knickers. It would have been much easier if she'd taken them off but she was more concerned with being able to appear relatively normal if anyone came in.

Her pussy was sopping—already. As she smeared the lubrication around her clitoris, she pondered how much her attitude had changed. She found it surprisingly difficult to remember how much she'd despised him the first time. And that was probably because she'd never actually despised him. It had been the circumstances—and she'd considered him weak-willed and overly compliant.

But she could now see that her perception had been largely a result of ignorance—her lack of understanding of the complexity of what he was dealing with. Also, she'd been struggling with the fact that she couldn't reconcile the nasty bastard she'd experienced as a student, with this gentle, considerate man who had clearly been attempting to make her experience as palatable as possible.

Professor McGonagall's insights had provided some recent clues. And she wondered now whether a lot of his gruff, cantankerous demeanour was a cover for a high level of sensitivity, thoughtfulness and concern—and even a fear of it being known. Obviously any show of weakness in the past had brought him hardship. He'd learned to cover it well.

She even felt a growing sense of protectiveness over him. He was clearly capable of dominating her, but it felt like even his more forceful actions had been done ' _with'_ her, not ' _to'_ her—as though she was an equal participant in the experience. And she had been. In fact, that whole part had been a revelation.

The thought of his body slamming against hers, his pelvis grinding and pummelling, had her fingers moving more rapidly over her aroused nub. She realised then that her other hand had subconsciously slithered under her shirt and was rolling and tugging her nipple in the same way that he did. She closed her eyes, recalling his face as he'd thrust his fingers into her—so fucking intense.

Catching herself moaning, she bit her lip. She was so close. And then she thought about his tongue slipping out to lick her juices off his fingers—the tongue that was just as likely to thrust up inside her. And she suddenly felt it.

"Ohhhh, fuck," she hissed as she came, her head curling forward, her eyes squeezing shut as the tremors shook her.

She rubbed until the last convulsions died away, finally opening her eyes to blink blearily at the light streaming through the window in front of her desk.

"That looked like a good one."

Gasping, she jerked around to see Parvati slinging her satchel onto the ground beside her bed.

"Anyone we know?" She grinned before starting to unbutton her shirt.

Hermione quickly snatched her hand from her knickers before flicking her skirt back down.

"I'd ask if it was me . . . but I suspect that might be wishful thinking." Parvati threw her shirt over a chair before pulling on a T-shirt. "It's a bit warm in here, don't you think?"

Hermione swallowed with difficulty.

"We're going for a walk to Hogsmeade—do you want to come? Oh, actually you just did that . . . perhaps I should ask if you would care to join us?"

"Uh." Hermione glanced down at the book on her desk.

"Please don't tell me you have to study."

"I . . . have to study."

Parvati approached her. "I'd ask if you were okay . . . but I hope that you would have told us if you weren't."

"I'm . . . I'm fine." Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm just . . . a little . . . wound up."

"Tell me about it." Parvati stared at her a moment before looking away. "Well, the offer's there."

She headed for the door.

"Vati?"

Parvati turned.

"Thanks for asking . . . And . . . please don't tell anyone."

"That you're human?" Parvati gave a wry smile. "Of course not."

* * *

Despite the warmth that permeated the rest of the castle, Hermione felt the temperature dropping rapidly as she descended into the Dungeons. She couldn't imagine having to live down there. It was no wonder he'd invested in soft blankets and satiny sheets, with fires almost permanently burning in the grate—no doubt it was an attempt to soften the harshness of his grim dwellings.

 _Surely the man deserved a modicum of warmth in his life . . . and possibly a little light?_

It turned out that he must be of the same opinion as that's what greeted her when he opened his door. A fire leaped and crackled behind him—it would be the only place in the castle currently requiring one. But the heat it provided happened to pale in comparison to that from his smouldering gaze which immediately scorched a ravenous trail over her body. He was clearly desperate—and no wonder after the state she'd left him in on Monday evening.

He didn't step back to allow her into his chambers and so she was forced to squeeze through the gap between his torso and the doorjamb. Strong arms trapped her half way, his head dipping down to trail soft lips down her temple.

She began to think she mightn't even get in the door this time before he took her.

Raising a hand, she clamped it over his mouth before pushing past, taking him by the hand on the way through and knocking the door closed with her foot.

Guiding him over to the chair by the fire, she pushed him down into it, drawing an amused smirk—one that she was finding increasingly sexy—and made even more so on this occasion by the inquiring arch of one elegant eyebrow.

Kneeling before him, she proceeded to pull off one soft leather boot, and then the other. Then she reached up to his fly. Something was clearly already happening in there, so she quickly flicked the button open and pulled down the zipper before dragging his trousers over his hips and tossing them aside.

Black boxer shorts—silk. No surprises there. And as much as she could imagine leaving them on, accessing him through the opening and enjoying the feel of the soft material slithering against her skin, she knew that the two of them were probably going to have to change positions relatively quickly and so the shorts would have to go. Curling her fingers under the elastic, she pulled those down also, releasing his member so that it bounced against his abdomen with a hefty twang.

It was the closest she'd been to his cock since he'd been unconscious. And for some reason being this close when he was watching felt so much more . . . intense. But she was determined to show him that she was willing to return the favour. She'd always been proud of paying her own way and was never a passive recipient in anything. And despite the fact that she was still extremely inexperienced, she felt she owed it to him to at least have a go.

Drawing her wand from her sleeve, she lifted the tip to a spot just above her throat and cast the Histomalleus spell. The change she felt as a relaxing and opening of the muscles—as it had when she'd practiced in her room.

Glancing nervously up at him, she saw nothing but desire in his face. It was enough. Slowly sliding her hands up his bare thighs, she watched his jaw tense and nose lift as he focused intently upon her. Her small hand closed around the thick base of his shaft before she pushed herself forward on her knees and placed a tentative kiss against his warm, silky skin.

He closed his eyes. It was almost too much already. This week's abstinence had been particularly painful. The knowledge that she wanted him and that he, in turn, wanted her had kept him in a perpetual state of semi-arousal. Potions classes had been particularly difficult. She'd continued to pretend to ignore him but even her mannerisms—the way she distractedly curled a lock of hair around her finger, rocked her foot from side to side as she read, chewed her lower lip as she stirred her cauldron—he noticed it all. And then he'd imagined being inside her—a serious mistake, requiring him to sit behind his desk for the remainder of the lesson.

And now she was here, dragging the lips he'd been pining for up his erection, tipping her moist, pink tongue out in a delicate trail that cooled with each shallow breath. The way she handled him was both diverting and endearing. While the hand on his shaft tentatively stroked up and down, the other remained splayed across his thigh, clenching him with what he knew was fear. But the fact that she continued to work her way determinedly up toward his head, panting with the emotional effort, filled him with even greater admiration.

And when she finally took him in her mouth he shuddered with ecstasy, his hyper-sensitive head surging and throbbing in response to her hot suction.

Tunnelling one hand into her hair, he dragged it back from her face so he could watch the fine bones of her jaw working. It was utterly exquisite. And he knew he was enjoying it too much. Too much for a member of the Order who was benefitting from the services of another. Too much for a man watching the efforts of a girl less than half his age. Too much for a teacher watching his student desperately striving to gratify him.

The irony was that the last time he could remember someone genuinely trying to please him was her—Hermione—in his classroom, before all this started.

And he'd been harsh on her. He resented spending his own life in servitude, and he equally despised recognising that need in others.

But now. Seeing her. Watching her taking him increasingly deeper into her, having cast the Histomalleus spell to enable it, he realised that it wasn't servitude at all. It was desire . . . a need to give . . . as was the essence of his own endeavours. It had just been twisted in his mind over time. As he had, in turn, twisted her intentions.

His vision turned glassy as he watched her—small determined fist pumping, head rocking in a gentle rhythm. He was wholly undeserving of this. If she knew, she wouldn't be here—and she certainly wouldn't be doing this to him.

The Order had equally used her, exploited her determination, her desire to assist, in yet another manipulation.

He caught the sob before it left his throat. He really needed to pull himself together.

Especially since he was about to come.

"Hermione," he rasped, catching her on the next downstroke. "I need you . . ."

Pulling her up with strong arms, he set her on his lap and quickly pushed her knickers aside, sliding himself into her warm, welcoming passage.

She was his escape. She had quickly come to represent a brief, but increasingly vital, respite from a world that was rapidly closing in on him. And whilst the thought of a relationship with her was as unrealistic as it was improper, it didn't stop him wanting it—his oasis.

The difficult thing was that it seemed to be happening—they were both actively pursuing more, and drawing closer all the time as a result. Inevitably, he knew it would reach an end point—all of it. And any chance to experience something like this would be beyond him.

Of course he was conflicted. _But when wasn't he?_ He felt guilty. _But when didn't he?_

Embracing her even more tightly, he thrust into her until he came, the sob finally breaking free.

He sounded so anguished. She thought he would have been relieved—the enchantment had been fulfilled after all. But his heart continued to thump like a snare drum against her chest.

She waited as it gradually slowed.

"Do you like having sex with me, Severus?" she murmured, brushing her lips against his ear.

"Yes," he breathed.

"Would you prefer to be . . . doing it . . . with someone else?"

"No."

It was deep and emphatic.

She sighed with relief before lowering her head to nestle into the curve of his neck.


	19. Dis-Orderly Conduct

She'd really wanted to be magnanimous. She'd even managed to pull it off—for a day.

When he'd reached down to rub her clitoris after he'd come, she'd stopped him, assuring him that it wasn't necessary.

Well, it turned out that it actually was necessary. So she'd Owled him the following day to ask if they could meet for 'tuition' again on Friday evening. It would be their third liaison in a week.

 _What in Merlin's name was she doing?_ He wasn't her boyfriend—he was actually her Professor. And she was supposed to be performing her duties with him once a week as a member of the Order—nothing more.

But it felt like so much more. When they'd kissed before the fire, she on his lap, him still inside her, she'd threaded her fingers into his hair and just enjoyed tasting him . . . really enjoyed it. For the first time it had been slow and unhurried, and she could simply explore, sampling each part that took her fancy. Like his eyelids—she'd licked them, making his long eyelashes flutter.

She'd kissed other people before—quite a few actually. But it was always someone equally inexperienced. He was so confident and effortless in comparison, but still he didn't seem to mind her clumsy journey of oral and tactile discovery. She'd traced the contours of his nose with her fingertips before kissing her way down the centre. She'd done the same to his jaw, licking up to his temple and flickering under his earlobe. But it was his mouth that she really did find quite deliciously irresistible—she returned constantly to run her tongue along each unique curve, under each ridge before lapping it into her mouth to suck on.

By the end, she'd really wanted him to fuck her again—properly—but she knew better than to ask. And so, making a pretty poor job of appearing cheery, she'd left. Her whole body hat hated her for it. Her pussy was silently howling for relief. Her lips, although swollen and raw, only wanted more. And her arms expected to have something to hold onto as she fell asleep. It ended up being a pillow in the end—and she felt appropriately sad and pathetic.

But he'd responded to her request almost immediately the following day and she was more excited than she could explain. Ignoring Lavender's angry thumps on the bathroom door, she'd spent a considerable amount of time preparing herself—quite unlike every other time as it had turned out. Rubbing copious amounts of expensive body wash over her entire body, she even went to the trouble of shaving off parts of her bush until it resembled something she hoped passed for 'tidy.'

By the time she'd dressed in a nice top and jeans, styled her hair and donned a pair of silver earrings her mother had given her for her seventeenth birthday, she was feeling better than she had in months.

"Where are you off to?"

"What?" She turned around.

Ron was slouched in a chair, one leg slung over the arm as he flicked through a Quidditch magazine.

"Where are you going all dressed up?"

"I'm not . . . dressed up." She ran a hand self-consciously over her hair. "I'm just off . . . to study."

"Not with that old git again?"

"Um . . . no . . . someone else."

"Can I come?"

"What?" She frowned.

"Are you going to be doing that essay for Ancient Runes? I haven't even started yet and it's due Monday."

"No—we're not," she replied abruptly.

He looked put out. "You usually help me."

"Well maybe you should start doing your own work for a change."

Throwing a disparaging look at her, he continued to flick through the magazine.

"I don't know what's up with you the last few months—you've changed."

"Thanks a lot." She turned to go.

"It wasn't a compliment."

Spinning back around, she glared at him. "If 'changed' means no longer 'carrying' you into an occupation that you would not be qualified for because you didn't, in fact, do any of the required work for it, then I'm glad to be 'changed.'"

"You're even beginning to sound like him."

"Who?"

Ron held her gaze.

Clenching her jaw, she turned on her heel and stormed out the door.

She fumed as she strode up the corridor. _Of course she'd fucking changed!_ She just couldn't tell him how—or why. _She couldn't tell fucking anyone!_ Maybe that's why she was becoming so attached to the wizard in the dungeons. She was completely isolated. He was the only one who understood what she was going through—because he was going through the same.

She was well aware that she'd changed _._ She was certainly more in touch with her feelings. The past months had been an emotional fucking rollercoaster. And she'd developed feelings for him—for Severus. It was still so strange to think of him as such. The name itself, 'Severus' suggesting someone severe—utterly appropriate for the demeanour he portrayed in the classroom. But her knowledge of him now, the 'Severus' she knew, was far from severe. He was tender and thoughtful and . . . and she was even beginning to think that he might have similar feelings for her. _So what did that mean?_ _Were they now, in fact—_

Something wrapped tightly around her throat. She tried to scream but a hand closed over her mouth and she was dragged backwards through a door into darkness.

"If you scream, I'll blast your throat out."

A wand jabbed under her chin as she was slammed against a cold, tiled wall. A bathroom. The torches were out _—_ the only light came from the half-moon diffusing through a grimy window.

"Let me go, Malfoy," she gasped.

"Not this time," he sneered. "Who were you off to see in such a hurry anyway?"

"No one."

"No one? So, he's called Professor No-one now is he?"

"I don't know . . . who you're talking about."

"I know you're Snape's whore," he whispered against her cheek.

She tried to turn her face away, but he grabbed her jaw and twisted it back.

"Who would have thought? The Gryffindor Princess . . . now the Slytherin . . . come . . . bucket." He spat the last word against her face.

Kicking out with a shriek, she reached for the wand in her pocket but it was gone.

"Looking for this?" He twirled her wand expertly around his fingers.

"What do you want?" she growled, pressing herself back against the tiles and wondering what her chances were of getting to the door before he attacked her.

"You know exactly what I want," he muttered darkly. "What you've been giving Snape for months to protect his slimy fucking hide."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She could hear the tremor in her voice.

"Really?" He took a step toward her. "Perhaps I should refresh your memory."

Extending his wand, he placed the tip against the top button on her shirt—it suddenly popped free, before dropping and rolling away. He did the same with the next button and the next until her shirt was gaping open, the top of her burgundy bra visible.

"You always wear this, do you?" He pushed her shirt open and cut one bra strap with his wand before slicing through the second strap causing her breasts to spill out the front.

She went to cover herself but suddenly felt her arms bound to the wall.

"You might be a fucking stuck-up bitch, but you're still hot." He moved in close. "Which is lucky since I've had to fuck some pretty fucking ugly Muggle Slappers lately."

He reached up and grasped her breast in his cold fingers. "So warm . . ." he murmured. "I'm actually looking forward to finally getting inside that pussy. I don't like going where Snape's been but I'll just have to carve out my own spot."

"Keep your filthy hands off me," Hermione spat.

"Don't pretend to be picky now." He tore open the remainder of her shirt with his hands. "You've let that old Perv fuck you for weeks—your standards aren't that fucking high. He might have a big dick but I doubt he has a clue what do with it."

Reaching out, he grabbed her by the crotch, roughly delving his fingers into the denim between her legs.

"You're going to be fucked by a full-blood now. And as a dirty Mudblood, you should be fucking grateful."

Grasping her jeans in both hands, he tore open the zipper before yanking them down over her hips.

Her heart thundered as she scanned the shadowy stalls for anything that might help her—there was nothing.

"Do you really expect to get away with this?" she ground out.

He reached down for his own zipper. "A quick repair and an Obliviation and you'll be as good as new—and none the wiser."

"I won't tell," she said abruptly. "Just . . . don't Obliviate me."

He sneered as he grabbed his crotch and massaged it. "You think I'm going to fuck up your mind? Damage your biggest asset?"

She glared at him but didn't respond.

"What you should have realised by now is that this is your biggest asset." He slid the fingers of his other hand down the front of her satiny knickers. "This is all you're good for. Even Snape knows that."

Hermione felt her throat constrict as her face began to burn.

"I bet he enjoyed popping your cherry." Draco breathed, his face so close she could no longer focus on it. "Did he hurt you . . . or did he try to make you come?"

Closing her eyes, she tried to block him out but his lips were against her ear.

"He's such a sad old fuck, I bet he tried to make you—"

Something large and black suddenly burst through the door and pinned Draco to the wall, his wand hand contorted painfully behind his back.

"Fuck . . ." he gasped, his face pressed into the tiles.

There was a brief flourish and Hermione felt her binds release. Trembling, she pulled up her jeans and cinched her shirt closed.

Draco was spun around and a hand pressed to his chest.

"You!" the blond snarled. "What the fuck are you doing? You're supposed to be protecting me. Don't you remember? You made a fucking vow!"

In the dim light Hermione could see the black gleam of Snape's eyes.

"I am protecting you." His voice was low and even. "Not . . . in the school grounds."

"But he's going to be there." Draco's voice had taken on a frantic edge. "The Dark Lord's coming. We can't . . . there's no way to satisfy the enchantment. I have to do this."

"Not . . . in the school grounds," Snape repeated.

"I'll take her out. I'll Bind her and take her."

Hermione could see the glassy sheen in Draco's eyes, he was clearly petrified. "You promised," he sobbed. "You can't stop me. What do you think my father will do to you?"

"Go, Miss Granger. Return to your room." Snape didn't look at her as he spoke.

"But—" she began.

"Now!" he commanded.

Clutching her clothing around her, she lunged at the door and pulled it open.

Without looking back, she ran.


	20. Defying Orders

A/N: Another quick one to keep things moving. DSx Also, I updated too quickly yesterday for it to go into the feed so if you missed the update, you might want to read the previous chapter before this one :)

* * *

Hermione was half-asleep when she heard a sharp tap on her window. Her heart instantly leapt . . . and then sank—there was no way it was him. Unless he'd flown up on a broomstick. _And why would he do that?_ She still lunged out of bed to check, tripping over a pile of books in the dark and drawing an angry snort from Lavender.

There was an owl at the window. Pushing the glass back, she allowed the bird to flutter past in a gust of cool air. When it landed, she noticed that it held something in its claws—her wand.

Severus must have sent it. No note. Nothing more.

He must have taken it from Draco. _But what had happened after that?_

Draco had mentioned a vow. _Was Severus really supposed to protect him?_ _Was that another part of the decree?_

Her relief at having been saved at the last moment was tempered by a deep sense of foreboding—she couldn't shake the feeling that something bad had happened to him, even worse that what he'd been trying to protect her from.

She'd done as she was told and returned to her room, looking as normal as she could under the circumstances. But she'd desperately wanted to see him—to make sure he'd returned safely to his chambers.

Retrieving her wand, she cast Lumos and used it to quickly locate a piece of parchment and quill.

She scrawled a note.

 _S,_

 _Can I see you?_

 _H._

As she watched the owl disappear into the night, her fingers clutching the windowsill tightly, she willed a rapid response . . . even though, deep down, she sensed that none would be forthcoming.

* * *

It was impossible. She'd tried every unlocking charm she knew and still couldn't break into his chambers. Either he wasn't in there or he didn't want to see anyone. Both scenarios were highly concerning as this was the fourth time she'd tried to visit him in the past two days.

There had been no response to her owl, nor had he attended the Great Hall for meals. A heavy sense of dread had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach—something was definitely wrong.

She would give it one more day. They had Potions class in the morning. She would work out a way to speak to him then.

* * *

"Miss . . . uh . . . Granger?" Professor Slughorn peered at her from the blackboard. "Would you care to take a seat?"

She had stopped in the classroom doorway and the remaining students were attempting to squeeze past.

Hermione scanned the room. Draco was missing.

"I . . . I just realised I forgot something. I'm sorry, Professor," she mumbled before turning and hurrying out the door.

* * *

"Professor McGonagall." Hermione burst into the older woman's office. "I'm really sorry to barge in like this but I need to speak with you—urgently."

The older woman pursed her lips before removing her glasses and placing them on her desk. Looking at her seriously, she finally sighed. "We've been expecting you, Hermione."

Standing, she skirted the desk before heading for the door. "Follow me."

Hermione pursued her in brisk strides to Professor Dumbledore's office. He opened the door before they knocked, ushering them inside.

"Where's Professor Snape?" Hermione asked as soon as the door was closed, looking anxiously between them.

Professor McGonagall turned her gaze to Dumbledore, who bowed his head before moving over to the window. He raised his watery eyes into the grey morning light. "Professor Snape is in a bad way."

Hermione clutched her arms around her stomach, shaking her head. She'd known it.

"What happened?" she gasped, trying to quell the threat of tears.

"He was summoned . . . by the Dark Lord."

A wave of nausea hit her.

"It appears that Lucius Malfoy accused him of placing Draco's life in danger. He also claimed that Severus was being protected by the Order . . . and that a certain member of the Order was ensuring that the enchantment was being fulfilled in a manner inconsistent with the Muggle decree."

 _A certain member?_

"What did the Professor say?" she whispered.

"He denied it . . . under torture."

 _Of course he did._ She quickly brushed a tear away.

"Can I see him?"

Dumbledore turned to look at her, a concerned frown creasing his brow. "I don't think that would be wise at this time."

 _What had they done to him?_ She wiped an anxious hand across her mouth.

"And Draco?"

"I understand that he is being cared for in Malfoy Manor. He incurred serious injuries after failing to comply with the decree . . . but was spared death. He has been given one last chance to prove himself."

Hermione stared at the ground in silence.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, you have done so much to ensure the Professor's safety. I'm sure he would be immeasurably grateful."

The words came to her as though spoken from a vast distance. _What did he mean?_

"So what happens now?" She addressed the Headmaster directly, worried about the insinuation.

"Madam Pomfrey is doing all she can to assist his recovery."

"Yes, but what then? Have they finished with him? Are they going to let him be?"

Dumbledore inhaled deeply before fixing her with his blue gaze. "The Dark Lord has insisted that Professor Snape attend the next 'gathering' . . . to prove that he has not been involved in such deception."

Her stomach began to twist.

"What proof do they require?"

"They require him to bring the Order member who has been named."

Hermione suddenly crouched down, putting her head in her hands. She felt Professor McGonagall's hand on her shoulder. "I'm fine," she rasped.

After a few deep breaths she looked up. "And how did they expect him to convince this member to attend?"

"I believe a compliance potion was indicated."

She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. "What was his response?"

Dumbledore paused to regard the window once again. "He has chosen to attend alone."

"Alone? Meaning . . . ?" Hermione glanced between the two. "That he'll be executed?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard as he continued to gaze out the window. "There comes a time in a man's life where he must be afforded the dignity to make such a choice."

"Dignity?" Hermione leaped up, clenching her hands into fists. "Is that what you call it? Sending him to the slaughter?"

"He would not accept the alternative of going into hiding. It is not a life that he is prepared to live."

 _Would he do it if he was with her?_

Hermione clenched her jaw in defiance. "And yet there is another option that seems to have been ignored."

Dumbledore looked to Professor McGonagall, an expression that suggested this was exactly why they hadn't informed her of what had transpired.

Hermione crossed her arms. "I could attend with him . . . as requested."

"Now, Hermione." Professor McGonagall approached her. "Do you understand what happens at these gatherings?"

"Yes."

Minerva looked at Dumbledore for support.

"You wouldn't be protected. Who knows what they would do to you."

"Professor Snape will be with me."

"But there is very little he could do. He will be under the most intense scrutiny."

"And that's why I will go. The scrutiny will be on him."

Professor McGonagall sighed, shaking her head. "They will expect you to have taken a compliance potion. Is that what you are prepared to do?"

"No. I'll pretend."

"Pretend?"

"Pretend to be compliant."

McGonagall's eyebrows jumped up in incredulity. "As much as I respect your determination and courage, Hermione, compliance is not a strong Gryffindor trait."

"I've been practising."

The older woman frowned in confusion.

"Professor Snape has . . . helped."

A glimmer of understanding captured her wrinkled features and she blinked rapidly. "I really don't know about this. Albus?"

Professor Dumbledore appeared equally concerned. "Hermione, you would be putting yourself in grave danger."

"And isn't the Wizarding World worth that? Isn't Harry? The Order? Professor Snape?"

"In my duty of care to you, I just don't think I can allow it."

"You haven't always been so concerned about my well-being, Professor. You of all people should be able to see that this is for the greater good."

Dumbledore looked at her resignedly, a deep sadness pulling at his features.

"I want to know where this gathering will take place." Hermione stated firmly. "And you mustn't inform Professor Snape of my intentions. Otherwise you put us both at risk."

She focused on each with grim determination.

"I'll need the information before Friday."

And she was gone.


	21. Judge's Order

A/N: Happy New Year to you all. You may have noticed a bit of an increase in pace before I have to return to work. Please don't be disappointed if things slow down a little after this. I'm very grateful for your continued support and wonderfully helpful comments and reviews. DSx

Thanks to Tamarama for the chapter title.

* * *

 _How should she behave? Mature? Immature? Slightly vague? Enigmatic? Like a witch? A Muggle? A ditzy bimbo?_

She actually had no bloody idea how she would behave under a compliance potion. Whenever she imagined herself pretending, what she mostly envisaged were disingenuous facial expressions and sarcastic quips. Keeping her mouth shut would obviously be a priority. Unless, of course, she was forced to open it to . . . and that's where she stopped thinking. It was too difficult. And so she didn't go there.

The other problem was her attire. She imagined that she would have taken the compliance potion first, and then been encouraged to dress for the evening. Which meant that her clothing choice would effectively be guided by a certain wizard—good but pretending to be an evil—trying to make her fuckable for a bunch of desperate Death Eaters—and who only ever wore black himself. That sounded suitably impossible to achieve.

She really needed some advice—girl advice. Ginny was the person she most often turned to if she had a general conundrum—the red-head was very switched on for a fifteen year old, much moreso than her brother. But this was totally different. She needed someone older—someone with more . . . experience.

"Vati?"

Hermione sat on the end of Parvati's bed where she was lying reading a book.

"Mmm?"

"I need your help?"

Immediately Parvati sat up, flinging her book to the floor. "I knew there was something wrong."

Hermione shook her head. "No, it's . . . it's nothing like . . . well, it's a bit like . . . I need to look hot."

Parvati's mouth hovered open as though unsure of how to respond. "You're not hot enough?"

"I need to be . . . fuckable."

"Again . . . I don't see the problem."

"I'm going out tonight . . . I want to . . ."

"Pick up?"

Hermione nodded reluctantly.

Parvati raised a dubious eyebrow. "Who are you trying to attract? Guys or girls?"

"Would I wear something different?"

"Yes." Parvati blinked as though not quite believing she'd actually had to ask.

It was a good question. _How many female Death Eaters were there? And how were they affected by the decree? Was she going to have to deal with them too?_

"Guys . . . mainly. . . I think."

The dark-haired girl narrowed her eyes. "Do you actually know who you're trying to attract?"

Hermione nodded non-committally.

Parvati was clearly unconvinced but she continued.

"Older or younger?"

"Um . . . both."

"Muggles or Wizards?"

"Wizards."

"Good or evil."

"Um . . . sort of . . . on the baddish . . . side."

"Why are you trying to—"

"Please don't ask me any more about them," Hermione interjected.

Parvati huffed before rolling off the bed. "Stand up."

Hermione stood. Parvati appraised her. "You're about my size. Bigger boobs—that shouldn't be a problem."

Opening her cupboard, she took out a black dress. "Do you have black heels?"

"Yes."

"Put this on and show me."

Hermione took the dress to her side of the room and quickly changed. When she returned, Parvati raised an appreciative eyebrow.

"What do you think?" Hermione looked down at the sheer, clingy material.

"Well, I'd fuck you."

Hermione smirked. "I'm serious."

Parvati turned away but Hermione caught her quiet murmur, "So am I."

Swinging back around quickly, the dark-haired girl raised her hands "Are we done here?"

"Um . . ." Hermione chewed her bottom lip.

Sighing, Parvati dropped her hands to her hips. "Out with it. What else?"

"I need something to . . . loosen . . . me up."

"Which part?"

"My . . . head."

"Lavatory keeps her whisky in her runes bag."

Hermione nodded. "Thanks . . . that'll be . . . good."

She continued to look awkwardly at the other girl before continuing. "And something . . . to loosen my . . ."

Parvati tilted her head quizzically before giving a small smile. "Are you asking if I have a dildo?"

Hermione's gaze dropped to the ground as her cheeks started to burn. "I understand that it's really not something that should be shared. But . . . I just thought . . ."

Shaking her head, Parvati crouched beside her bed and opened the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet. Taking out a bag, she threw it to Hermione. "It's clean."

Hermione released a shaky breath. "I . . . I really appreciate it . . ."

Parvati stood. "It's not a problem—really. I just hope that whatever you're doing is worth it."

Hermione felt her throat tighten as she approached the dark-haired girl. "I really hope so too. Thanks Vati."

Wrapping her arms around her, she placed a kiss on her cheek. Suddenly, Parvati's hands were on either side of her face, gently holding her in place as she turned her head, her lips finding Hermione's. She held her for a moment before releasing her.

"You're welcome," she murmured, raking her eyes down Hermione's body as she stepped back to retrieve her book.

Hermione drew a steadying breath. She really needed some fucking whisky.

* * *

She didn't drink much—not as much as she wanted to. She was well aware that she was going to need her wits about her if she was going to make it through the evening. And if she was going to be of any help to Severus.

Heels scraping against the uneven flags of a narrow alleyway, she lifted her hood to assess her bearings. According to the directions she'd received, the entrance to the club should be somewhere nearby. Then she saw it, up ahead, a flickering yellow lamp above a nondescript iron door.

As she watched, two figures approached the entrance from a side alley. One of them traced their hand in a winding pattern over the door before it was opened and they disappeared inside.

Another figure appeared in front of her—tall, rigid, but with an obvious limp. She caught a glimpse of his face as he approached the yellow light. _Severus?_ Quickening her steps, she moved up behind him before capturing his arm. Despite the fact that he was obviously still unwell, his reflexes were like lightning. Grasping her wrist, he twisted her around and yanked her hood back.

The look of naked horror that captured his features made her instantly recoil.

"What—!"

"Ah, Severus, I see you've brought the guest of honour." Lucius Malfoy's striking silver and black form appeared in the doorway. "Miss Granger." He inclined his head.

"Mr Malfoy." Hermione nodded up at him.

"I wouldn't have expected our guest to still require such . . . firm handling." He glared at Severus before looking pointedly at where Hermione's arm was still clamped tightly in his fist.

Realising that the dark wizard was in no state to respond, Hermione gave a rueful smile. "Silly me. I'm not used to these shoes. Professor Snape thankfully caught me before I fell." She slipped her wrist out of his grasp.

Malfoy straightened. "Indeed . . . always the gentleman," he sneered.

Venturing a glance at Severus' ashen face, Hermione wondered again if she should have attempted to warn him. _No—she was correct not to_. It was abundantly clear from his response now that he would have prevented her from attending. He might have accepted this as his own fate, but he would not have accepted it as hers.

"Let's not linger." Malfoy extended his hand to her. "There are many here who are desperate to make your acquaintance."

Hermione's hair prickled as she touched him, her skin crawling with revulsion, but she'd decided that her best approach was to question nothing—she would comply . . . as difficult as it was, she would comply.

Just inside the door was an antechamber in which two muscular werewolves stood with their arms folded.

"Search these two," Malfoy ordered. "Remove all items, including wands."

With a toothy leer, one of the werewolves approached Hermione, roughly pulling off her hooded cloak before running his paws over every inch of her, taking her bag and wand in the process. Severus' wand was similarly confiscated. Hermione doubted very much that any of the others would have had to surrender theirs; the odds were continuing to pile against them.

"Do follow me." Malfoy gave a mock-courteous bow before leading them to a closed door.

Hermione used the opportunity to brush her fingers against Severus'. She wanted him to know that she was with him. His black eyes met hers and the anguish in them made her wonder if perhaps this really was beyond her—beyond even the two of them.

Lucius turned the handle and pushed the door open to reveal a large room with a long table in the centre. Seated at the table were a number of wizards and witches, some of whom were familiar to Hermione but many of whom weren't. The entire congregation turned to look as they entered.

At the far end sat the Dark Lord himself, pale and ghostly but unfortunately very real. His claw-like hand sat firmly on the shoulder of a figure to his right, a similarly-pale Draco Malfoy, deep bruising still evident around his eyes.

"Lucius. Perhaps you would like to introduce our guest," Voldemort rasped.

"Indeed, my Lord, this is the delightful Hermione Granger, chaperoned very capably by the equally charming, Severus Snape."

The sneers and lascivious grins on the faces before her made Hermione's insides squirm.

"Has her compliance been assured?" The nostril slits on Voldemort's face flared and contracted as he spoke.

"I believe so."

"It would be prudent to . . . check."

Malfoy inclined his head.

"Miss Granger, you will remove your dress—now."

Without hesitation, Hermione slipped the straps off her shoulders, allowing the entire garment to slither to the ground.

As she stood in her underwear, trying to hold off the tremors that desperately wanted to take hold, she caught sight of Severus' hands closing into fists.

Voldemort's cracked lips parted into a trollish grin.

"Are we to understand that she is, in fact, the named member whom you believe to be responsible for undermining the decree?" Voldemort wheezed.

"Yes, my Lord. I am confident that she has been used to service the enchantment on multiple occasions."

"And yet Severus denies such a thing?"

"Of course." Malfoy looked hatefully at Snape who continued to seethe in silence.

"Whilst the alleged misdemeanour relates to the decree as it stands, I have accepted the personal nature of this accusation, Lucius." Voldemort's hand tightened on Draco's shoulder. "And will, therefore, allow you to submit the evidence as you see fit."

"Thank you, my Lord."

The blond wizard stepped up to Hermione and reached inside his jacket. With a flourish, he pulled out a handful of pink material. It seemed somehow . . . familiar. Lifting the object to his nose, Malfoy inhaled deeply, his eyelids shuttering as he focused upon the scent.

"Open your legs," he commanded.

Hermione's heart accelerated. _What was he going to do?_

Whatever it was, it was likely to pale in comparison to what she was in for. She thought back to Severus thumping her head against the desk as he fucked her in the dark. She'd had to let go and submit to him. At that time it was for release—in order to relinquish control. This time she needed to do it for survival _._

Lifting one heeled foot, she moved it apart from the other, placing it firmly on the ground in a bold show of acquiescence that she didn't feel. Locking his striking silver eyes upon hers, Malfoy reached forward, slipping his fingers down the front of her knickers. When she felt him dipping between her folds, her legs started to melt, verging on collapse. She steeled herself. She mustn't lose sight of her purpose. She was determined to leave this forsaken place with him—with Severus—if it was the last thing she did.

Malfoy slowly withdrew his fingers, trailing his thumb lightly up her abdomen before bringing his hand to his nose and inhaling again.

"I-dent-ical." He drew out each syllable before tossing the fabric onto the table. One of the nearby wizards snatched it up and brought it to his face.

"I retrieved them from Snape's chambers. They're hers. I believe he was also fortunate enough to take her virginity."

Voldemort's gaze settled upon Draco. "And is this . . . typical behaviour? Would a degree of coercion be required?"

"She's a frigid bitch." Draco spat. "He's clearly drugged her."

Voldemort nodded. "Continue Lucius."

"The ultimate proof will come from forcing them to fulfil the enchantment. The only way they can definitively demonstrate no prior engagement is if it is successfully fulfilled in the absence of any bodily manipulation via Polyjuice."

"And if it is not successfully fulfilled?"

"It will demonstrate one of two circumstances. Either that there is a genuine deception. Or that a contraceptive is present. Forcing the exposure of a contraceptive will protect the remaining members who have been granted approval to fulfil their own enchantments this evening. Final verification of a contraceptive will require forcing a second round of fulfilment under a Muggle Polyjuice. Failure under this circumstance will indicate the presence of a contraceptive. Success under this circumstance will, again, demonstrate deception."

Voldemort chuckled. "You have given this thorough consideration, Lucius. You are to be commended."

Lucius gave a small bow. "I'm committed to ensuring a . . . just . . . outcome."

Severus snorted loudly.

"Yesss . . . perhaps we should now hear from the wizard in question." Voldemort finally removed his hand from Draco's shoulder and clasped both together on the table before him. "Severus, what have you to say on the matter?"

"This is nothing more than an attempt to divert attention from the deception that has been occurring within these very walls on a weekly basis." Severus' deep voice rang out, causing the smirks and sneers to rapidly drop from the faces of those present.

Voldemort raised his chin. "Explain."

"The practice of using a single Muggle to fulfil multiple enchantments and systematically undermining the decree has been orchestrated routinely by none other than Lucius Malfoy. Perhaps his motivations for this 'Wizard hunt' should have received greater scrutiny prior to this evening?"

"Are you questioning the wisdom of my methods, Severusss?"

"Not at all, my Lord." Severus' expression remained inscrutable. "I am merely suggesting that the tenacity with which one pursues an allegation against another may, in fact, indicate a motivation to protect one's own interests."

"Thank you for your valuable insight into the psychology of motivation. However, perhaps you've forgotten that I'm not one of your studentsss." Voldemort hissed. "You may impress them sufficiently to expect an uncommon degree of commitment." His slitted, red eyes slid to Hermione who continued to stand stolidly despite the chill of the room. "I would, however, prefer to rely upon evidence to inform my judgements."

"If it pleases you, my Lord." Malfoy's oily voice broke in. "In the event that a deception is discovered, I request permission to deal with it . . . in the most appropriate manner."

"No." Voldemort's response was abrupt. "If there is a deception, _I_ will administer the punishment . . . for both of them."


	22. Ordering About

A/N: Because many of you have expressed opinions in the past, and in the spirit of democracy (which just works so well, doesn't it? ;)), I thought I might give you a chance to decide which POV the next chapter should take. More details at the end! DSx

* * *

"Let's get on with it then." Lucius looked disdainfully at Severus. "And if my Lord agrees, I would further request permission to oversee the fulfilment in private."

Loud muttering erupted from around the table.

"That's not what I came here for," Bellatrix squawked.

Voldemort's gaze rested upon the blond wizard until the hubbub had died down. "This is most unusual, Lucius. For what reason?"

"As you indicated earlier. This is . . . personal."

After another protracted pause, Voldemort gave a small nod.

"The rest of you will have an opportunity to meet with our guest on your own terms. I will also take this opportunity to make it clear that any future attempts to meet the enchantment requirements _en masse_ will be dealt with . . . severely."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"We will wait on your judgement, Lucius." Voldemort flicked his pale hand to indicate that they were dismissed.

Lucius grabbed Hermione by the upper arm but before he could move, Bellatrix stepped in front of him.

"Let me lick her," she growled, ravenous black eyes falling to Hermione's crotch.

"No, Bella." Lucius made to step around her. "You can have her later."

Bellatrix curled her black fingernails into the lapel of his jacket. "But I want her clean . . . not after all you filthy bastards have been in there."

"It hasn't stopped you before," Lucius ground out. "Now get out of my way."

Bellatrix hissed at him before flouncing off.

Tightening his grip, he pulled Hermione toward one of three doors off the main room. "Bring Snape." He nodded to a werewolf who was standing at the main exit.

Hermione allowed herself to be pushed into a smaller room which was lit by several magical torches in sconces against the walls. A large four-poster bed was set in the middle and there was a table with two chairs near the fireplace.

"Get undressed," he threw over his shoulder at Severus before leading Hermione over to one of the chairs at the table.

Sitting down abruptly, he pulled her onto his lap.

"Now, let's see what we have here," he muttered, sliding her hips so far forward that she was sitting on top of his crotch and he could prop his boot on his knee behind her backside. She felt like she was a book that he was about to read.

Instead, he placed one hand on either side of her abdomen, thumbs resting against the underside of her ribcage. Gradually, he dragged both palms upwards, inhaling and exhaling slowly beneath her as he did. His thumbs slipped under the front of her strapless bra and he proceeded to rub both slowly back and forth against the underside of her breasts, watching intently.

"I don't know how they convinced you to whore yourself out to protect Snape." He spoke quietly as he slid his fingers around to her back and flipped the clasp undone. "But I consider him to be a very . . . fortunate . . . man." With the final word, he allowed her bra to drop.

He ran what appeared to be a practised eye over her breasts before returning his hands to her front, dabbing the tip of one thumb against her nipple. She gasped as it puckered.

His silver eyes flashed, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

"So responsive," he breathed before dipping his nose to her chest, inhaling deeply.

"I've been carrying your scent with me," he muttered, his breath tickling her skin. "I've tortured myself with it, wondering when I'd get a chance to finally meet the owner. To _taste_ her."

His tongue flickered out and Hermione felt a moist trail curling around the soft edge of her cleavage.

"After this. After you've sampled us both. I would encourage you to reconsider whom you wish to service. Because I can give you so . . . much . . . more. No one else need know. This would be our . . . little—"

"I believe it's my turn first." Severus hooked an arm around Hermione's waist and swiftly lifted her, turning and carrying her to the bed before tossing her onto it.

"You fucking cunt!" Lucius leapt up and stormed over to them. "You're in no position to dictate what happens here! There's a good chance you'll be dead before the evening is out!"

Severus turned to face him. Although completely naked, he still cut a formidable figure.

"And how long will _you_ survive after that? Or your son for that matter?"

Lucius' eyes bulged as he lifted a shaking finger. "Don't you dare speak to me about Draco. You were supposed to fucking protect him. But you defended her, a Mudblood, instead. You broke the unbreakable vow."

"Clearly I didn't, because I'm still alive." Severus crossed his arms. "I did what was best for him. You can thank the Dark Lord for everything else."

Meanwhile Hermione had crawled under the covers.

"And it's that fucking arrogance that will see you dead," Malfoy growled.

Severus snorted disparagingly. "Lucius Malfoy lecturing on arrogance, what next?"

"What next? After you die—we take . . . her . . . apart." He glared at Hermione who had shuffled up to the far end of the bed. "On top of the covers—now!" he ordered.

Then he leaned in close to Severus. "Fuck her," he spat, before spinning around and returning to sit petulantly in the chair.

Severus turned to see Hermione crawling naked into the middle of the bed. He was so furious with her that his teeth were aching from the strain. But the fact that she was there—that she'd put herself in harm's way in another show of reckless courage, made his heart ache—throbbing like a physical wound. She might have done it for the Order. And she had no doubt done it for Potter. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she'd also done it for him. And the guilt was horrendous—especially considering there was virtually no chance of them escaping unscathed, let alone with their lives.

"Do her from behind. No talking. No Legilimency," Lucius snapped from across the room.

 _How did she manage to look hopeful?_ When he approached, her brown eyes slid over to Lucius who was angrily rubbing at his lapel, before returning to gaze at him, offering him a tiny smile.

 _Didn't she know what these people were capable of?_ He wanted to shout at her, shake her. But at the same time he wanted to hide her—gather her in his arms and run. Away. Anywhere.

Instead he simply indicated for her to get onto all fours—and she complied. It opened a new wound. She was one of the least compliant people he'd ever met and here she was, doing it all, doing everything that was asked. He knew how difficult it must be for her. And the emotion that welled in him was one he hadn't felt in a very long time. He barely recognised it. And it was utterly useless. But as he rested a hand gently on her back, sliding it across her soft, warm skin again, he felt the tears gather in his eyes.

"Get on with it!" Lucius stood up.

Quickly, Severus blinked the mist away—and with it the complexity of what he felt for her. He took in her patient stillness. Her brave waiting. There was nothing else for it—they simply had to do it. Climbing onto the bed behind her, he slid his hands forward and skimmed down her sides until the familiar weight of her breasts settled in his palms. It was just like the first time. Except that now he knew her inside out—literally. And so he started on her nipples—it was easy and fluid and she was soon sighing despite the abominable circumstances.

And even the intense scrutiny from Lucius' stealthy advance wasn't sufficient to stop him from responding—he was hard within only a few short moments. She'd been able to do that to him effortlessly from the start, in fact even when others couldn't.

He didn't wish to dwell upon it, his hyper-sensitivity to her, as it was more important at this point to focus on how they were going to extract themselves from Lucius' company, and from this entire sordid establishment. There were plenty of wandless combat spells that he could call upon, of course, but Malfoy had a wand. And then there was the horde of Death Eaters beyond the door, including Voldemort himself. He couldn't achieve any decent level of invisibility without a potion. And he was unable to cast Histomalleus on her because the enchantment would detect that it had come from a foreign source. If it came from anywhere, it needed to come from her. The Death Eaters clearly had a stash of Polyjuice potions but he had no idea where they were kept and it would be quite obvious if she took one.

His heart sank further. Unfortunately it seemed that their fate was sealed—when he ejaculated, they would both be subject to the enchantment's punishment. It had knocked him flat earlier and so the effects upon her were going to be severe. After that, somehow, the Death Eaters planned to force them do it again under Polyjuice to disprove the presence of a contraceptive and, therefore, demonstrate that he was a liar.

Of course he was a liar. He'd been deceiving for so long, he'd stopped questioning it. But there was one deception that had been eating away at him. He had no solution for it. And perhaps he wouldn't need one. Perhaps in a matter of minutes it would all be over anyway.

Despite the heaviness, he felt himself stir further as he slid one finger inside her. She was more than prepared—in spite of it all, she was ready for him. In fact, somehow, throughout this entire ordeal, they had always managed to be physically compatible. But from their more recent encounters, it seemed that they were also coming to an emotional understanding . . . when it was, unfortunately, too late.

Guiding his head to her entrance, he placed a hand on her shoulder to brace himself and then gradually pushed his way inside. She slid her legs a little further apart to accommodate him. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the melancholia that was clouding his thoughts. It was as though he was already shutting down, giving up. The problem that faced them just seemed so monumental.

He was still injured, his knee was screaming. And he had lain in the hospital wing for almost a week accepting this—preparing for his fate. The inertia from that acquiescence seemed to drag on him. If he could only spare her—cause a distraction so that she could escape.

As he thrust into her, he watched the muscles of her back working, flexing in delicate waves under her skin. She was so utterly exquisite, he just wanted to rub his hands all over her but he couldn't. Malfoy was watching them like some malevolent albino hawk.

He could feel her sheath squeezing him, encouraging him with similar rhythmic undulations. She was trying to help. But it was only bringing them closer to the end. He desperately wished that there didn't need to be an end, but he couldn't very well fuck her forever—even if it seemed in that moment like the most blissful existence he could possibly imagine.

As he felt himself slipping away, preparing to submit to the pain that was awaiting them, he noticed that she brought her hand up between her legs and appeared to be rubbing her clitoris.

"What's this?" Malfoy sauntered closer, a smirk on his lips. "Little Minx trying to get herself off too is she? Is that the compliance potion or is she just a horny little slut?"

"Perhaps she just appreciates a big dick," Severus drawled, pumping harder.

Malfoy's eyes flickered down before he gave a snort of disgust and turned away.

She continued to rub herself and Severus honestly didn't know why. _Was it the last time she thought she'd get the chance?_ It was pretty ambitious under the circumstances.

But then he noticed something—those lovely round cheeks that he'd admired from the very beginning suddenly started to look even lovelier and rounder than usual. They appeared to be swelling—inflating as he watched like two peach-coloured balloons. Then he understood. It was the Histomalleus, cast wandlessly. _Fuck, she was brilliant!_ And she'd done it right where he would see it—to ensure that he knew.

Then he just went for it.

Grasping her voluptuous globes in both hands, he slammed into her and she moaned in ecstasy. Lucius snarled irritably, clearly unhappy to see them enjoying themselves.

Curling his fingers into her supple flesh, he plunged in repeatedly, and her fingers were definitely now massaging her clitoris. He could tell by her gasps that she was close. And when she cried out and began convulsing, he came with her, surging euphorically into her channel in an orgasmic celebration, a collaboration that was literally life-saving—that made him feel closer to her than he'd been to anyone in his life.

He desperately wanted to roll her over and kiss her but instead he pulled out, come still dripping from his cock, and sneered at Lucius.

"As I told you, I've never done her before. But after that, I'm quite confident I'll be looking to go again."

Lucius seethed.

Hiding a grimace as his knee buckled, Severus stood up. "Now I'll take her back to Hogwarts before she's missed."

"No you fucking won't."

Grasping Hermione by the wrist, Lucius dragged her off the bed and over to the door, flinging it open with a bang. Silence rapidly descended upon the room as everyone swivelled to look at them. Hermione desperately wanted to cover her nakedness but fortunately had enough presence of mind to stop herself.

"My Lord." Malfoy's face flamed with a mixture of fury and embarrassment. "It appears that these two have somehow managed to fool the enchantment."

"Fool . . . the . . . enchantment?" Voldemort's voice crackled with displeasure. "Is this the enchantment that you assured me could not be deceived?"

"Yes . . . uh . . . No . . . Rather . . . there is no other way to explain the outcome."

"Unless . . . Severus was, in fact, telling the truth?"

"He's a liar!" Malfoy shouted.

Hermione heard the silence withdraw into itself. Breaths were being held.

"Be that as it may." Voldemort continued. "He has passed your test. You are to let him go."

Malfoy glared. "And what about the girl?" He tightened his iron grip.

"Do with her as you wish."

Severus strode from the room in a whirlwind of unfurling robes. He'd dressed and was clearly ready to leave.

"My Lord, she is expected back at the castle. If her absence is traced back to me, I am unlikely to be trusted to engage with Potter's associates in the future—those with intimate knowledge of his whereabouts and intentions. It will diminish the quality of the information that I can provide to you."

Voldemort's nostril slits flared. "The level of desperation in your voice concerns me, Severus," he hissed. "You must demonstrate your dedication to the cause by allowing the others to use her as required."

"She is my student. I have a perceived duty of care."

"And in your 'perceived' duty of care, you can create the 'perception' of caring. Your superior knowledge of the human psyche, as you went to great pains to demonstrate to me earlier, should ensure that you present a flawlessly convincing front in that regard."

Severus looked at Hermione. The words were on his lips. Words to send the whole fucking lot of them to hell. But they, themselves, would also be destroyed. Neither would survive it.

Then he saw that look in her eye. And he uncurled his fingers. Either she was about to be incredibly courageous. Or she had a plan. He suspected, knowing her, that it was both.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so the next chapter can either be a fly on the wall chapter with Hermione and Lucius. Or it can be from Sev's POV outside, witnessing the aftermath. I'll go with the majority (across three sites). Pleased don't be annoyed if it wasn't your preference. Thanks for playing, DSxx


	23. Secret Orders

A/N: Sincere thanks to all of you who took the time to place your votes (over 100 in only a day - so well done). It was so much fun to receive them and the variety of considered explanations for choices. So without further ado, the winner of the vote was *drumroll* - 'Fly on the wall with Lucius and Hermione.' I can't say I was completely surprised knowing what a smutty lot you are. However, for those who voted Sev's POV - that is also included throughout this chapter and for the one person who threw down the challenge of all three POVs - I have included a bit in there for you too. Those of you completely averse to being a fly on the wall, you may wish to skip to the end-ish bit. For the rest of you – you did ask for it ;) DSx

* * *

"Draco's turn will follow," Lucius informed the room, glaring at the others as though daring them to challenge him.

Hermione noticed that Draco didn't look up, focusing instead upon the table before him.

Abruptly spinning her around by the wrist, Lucius pushed Hermione back into the bedroom before following her and slamming the door closed.

"Why don't you come sit next to me, Sevvy?" Bellatrix wheedled, patting the empty seat beside her. "Tell me what a naughty boy you've been."

"I'd rather stand," Severus muttered, crossing his arms and doing his best not to focus on the door.

But he listened, straining to hear over the alcohol-fuelled conversations that had reignited around the room. If he heard her cry out—or anything untoward at all, he would be in there in a heartbeat, stuffing Lucius' balls into his filthy, privileged mouth.

* * *

Hermione watched Lucius warily, things had certainly turned sour quickly when Severus had taken her from him. Clearly, he wasn't at all used to being deprived of what he wanted.

"I suppose you think that was clever?" Lucius sneered, twisting the jewelled button open at his throat.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Hermione replied innocently, standing her ground despite desperately wanting to retreat from his advances.

"You made me look a fool," he spat.

 _You did that pretty well yourself_.

"Sorry, I didn't intend to."

"Intend to?" He tilted his head, examining her closely. "Now exactly what _was_ your intention in coming here?" he asked, continuing to flick open the buttons of his shirt.

"I was invited."

"It was as simple as that, was it?" He shrugged off his jacket and sent it wandlessly to the chair across the room. "I believe that Draco invited you previously. Why didn't you choose to attend on that occasion?"

"I wasn't so . . . inclined."

His icy gaze fixed upon her. "And suddenly you are? . . . How . . . lucky . . . for us."

Reaching out, he grasped her by the throat, not enough to constrict it, but sufficient to make her heart leap up to her larynx. "I'm interested to see how deep this newfound compliance runs."

She swallowed with difficulty.

Applying pressure, he forced her downward. She grasped his hand with both of hers, trying to steady herself against the blackness that had started to take hold. He kept pushing until she collapsed onto her knees, at which point he finally released her.

Gasping, she held her throat, glaring up at him. She didn't care. Even a compliant person wouldn't put up with that sort of shit.

Suddenly he smirked. "And there it is . . . the hint of fire. Perhaps we're not as compliant as we pretend?"

Hermione stretched her neck to one side and then the other. "Is that how you treat all your guests?"

"Only the special . . . ones." He continued to smirk down at her as he removed his shirt and tossed it aside, lean muscles rippling. Next he grasped the silver buckle of his belt, yanking it free before pulling the black leather strap out with a swift flourish.

"How about we put a little ice on that fire? . . . The bite of my buckle against the heat of that . . . pussy." He flicked the leather between her legs, tapping her surprisingly accurately on the clitoris.

 _Fuck._ This bastard was even more perverted than she'd imagined. She needed to do something quickly—otherwise there was no knowing what he would start.

Forcing the most seductive smile she could manage without vomiting, she raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Maybe . . . later . . . But first I'd like to . . ."

Shuffling forward on her knees, she reached up to the fly of his trousers. His grin broadened as she pulled the buttons apart and delved her hand inside to release his cock. It was semi-erect. This was the second penis she'd experienced close up. She didn't like it nearly as much. Probably because of whom it was attached to.

"Clearly you like what you see." He inclined his head proudly.

 _No, not really._

"Mmm." She knew it sounded unconvincing so she gave an exaggerated nod which would only fool a total egomaniac.

He chuckled, grasping it by the base. "Indeed. It's more than size that counts."

 _Only a man with cock envy would say that_.

She'd exhausted her supply of disingenuous superlatives about his dick and so decided to just get on with it.

But it was difficult. On so many levels. Notwithstanding the fact that he was an arrogant, perverted creep who was liable to do something awful when she was in such a vulnerable position, she also felt guilty. The two times she'd done it before were with the man waiting just outside the door. He had been so close to blowing up only minutes earlier. She'd seen it. And yet he'd held back, trusting her. _And was this how she repaid his trust? Sucking Lucius Malfoy's cock?_

Of course it was purely a means of survival, but it didn't stop the memories from creeping back. The last time had been with him, Severus, in front of the fire, and she'd done it to show her appreciation of him, to repay his consideration of her. It had represented a deeply emotional exchange. And yet this was just plain—

"Are you going to suck me or not?"

Focusing on the ground, she took a deep breath—she was probably going to need it knowing him.

Reaching up, she grasped his shaft in her hand, delivering only a few short strokes before taking his head into her mouth. She didn't intend to kiss or lick or gaze appealingly up at him; this was entirely about stimulation. And she was confident she could do that.

He grasped her hair tightly and, as she guessed, tried to shove himself deeper inside. _What a prick_. Bringing her fingers to her throat as though struggling not to gag—pretty close to the truth as it turned out—she cast Histomalleus and felt the internal structures relax. She'd been practising the wandless spell non-stop since conceiving of her plan. It still wasn't perfect—her buttocks felt enormous—but it was good enough.

"You like the taste of pureblood cock, do you?" he grunted, thrusting into her.

She'd prefer purecock blood. And while the idea of ripping his dick off with her teeth was appealing in that moment, she had other plans . . . plans that she desperately hoped she would find an opportunity to execute.

* * *

 _What was he doing to her?_ Severus paced over to the mantel nearby, trying to appear nonchalant. The mantel clock read 10 p.m. There were eight other wizards in the room. That was one every fifteen minutes if Lucius finished with her soon—less if he was doing any of his usual sordid . . . _Fuck!_

"Sit down, Severus," Voldemort wheezed. "Your pacing is becoming tiresome."

"If she is damaged in any way, my Lord, it is going to bode very poorly for me."

"After the Obliviation, she will be unaware of the origin."

"But she will seek an explanation. And she is likely to be aware of the Obliviation."

Voldemort's red eyes narrowed. "You give the Mudblood an inordinate amount of credit . . . considering your lack of prior engagement."

"She's been my student for years. She's an insufferable know-it-all, opinionated, demanding, obstinate, . . . reckless."

He had to stop—the hoarseness in his voice was at risk of giving him away. All the traits that he'd reeled off as character flaws were, in fact, those that made her so utterly extraordinary—that made her capable of doing what she'd done this evening. She was one of the bravest people he'd ever known.

"She's a total pain in the arse," Draco agreed.

Voldemort sighed, clearly on the verge of losing his patience. "You are welcome to leave if it is causing you such distress. Draco will return her."

 _Over his dead body_.

Severus pulled out a chair and sat abruptly. "I'll wait."

* * *

Malfoy clearly thought she'd be intimidated by his forcefulness, but with the help of the Histomalleus spell, she was able to take everything he threw at her. He was soon groaning and panting above her, and suddenly she felt him withdraw, hand clamped around his cock as he backed away.

"Shit . . . I just need a . . . that was quite . . . something. Just give me a . . . moment . . ."

He stumbled over to prop his arms on the table, sucking in deep breaths. Hermione rose on stiff legs, making her way over to the bed.

He needed to pull himself together. There was no way he should have come that close. Not after what had happened when he'd tried to have sex with Narcissa. The enchantment's punishment was one of the worst experiences of his life and he'd vowed never to allow it to happen again. But then this—with a Mudblood of all people.

After a few more moments he felt calm enough to return. She was on the bed, watching him. At least she seemed to understand what was required of her.

He stroked himself a few times as he approached, just to make sure everything was still intact. At this point he would normally do them from behind—over something, against a wall. They were only Muggles after all. But on this occasion he felt differently. He wanted to watch her face. Not for the pain necessarily, he had a sense she wouldn't show it even if she felt it. But she had captured something in him. There was something about her. The fact that she was there at all . . . she was . . . surprising.

Without speaking, he pushed her back onto the bed and pulled her hips toward the edge. Placing a knee beside her, he lifted one of her legs and stretched it up against his chest to hook over his shoulder. Flexible too. A nice little addition.

He didn't always enjoy this part, especially after following on from someone else—everything he felt wasn't necessarily from her. Regardless, he grasped the base of his cock, sliding his head between her moist folds before feeling for her entrance and pushing in. He instantly relaxed as he entered. The warm constriction around his cock was a relief as it signified an end to another week of torture. Now all he had to do was enjoy it.

Sighing, he pumped into her, watching her breasts jolt each time he bottomed out.

"You really are very easy on the eye," he murmured.

 _You might be too if you weren't such a fucking arsehole_.

Hermione managed a small smile.

Leaning toward her, he flexed her leg back to her chest as he thrust harder into her.

He sniffed distractedly as he stroked.

"Did you drink something?"

She shook her head in confusion, holding her breath.

He frowned but continued to pump. She clenched her core muscles as hard as she could. She wanted this to be over with very . . . very . . . soon.

He groaned and sped up.

"That's good," he grunted and then his breathing turned ragged. Plunging harder and faster he curled his fingers into her upper arms.

"Yesss!" he hissed.

And came.

"No!" he screamed.

Hermione felt it as a shaft of white-hot lightning driven into her core. Her cry of agony melded with his as they fell away from one another, clutching their groins.

Severus was first inside the room. It was clear from their desperate writhing that they'd been struck by the enchantment's punishment. _But how?_

Bellatrix pushed him out of the way before leaping onto the bed, tossing aside one pillow and then another.

"I knew it!" she cried triumphantly, lifting a small glass bottle above her head. "Contraceptive Potion! Did anyone search her?"

The two werewolves at the door looked at one another before nodding aggressively.

"What about inside her?" Bellatrix screeched. "Did you look inside her?"

Silence.

"Men and fucking werewolves," Bellatrix growled. "Not a fucking clue."

Voldemort strode angrily into the room.

"She is now tainted. Get her out of here," he seethed. "The rest of you have ninety minutes to fulfill your enchantments. I suggest you . . . get . . . moving."

Bellatrix raised her wand and attempted to assist Lucius who continued to groan, his face a rictus of pain.

Severus wrapped his robes around Hermione and lifted her to his chest.

Why did you do this?" he whispered against her cheek.

"Because . . . fuck them . . . that's why," she rasped weakly.

He shook his head sadly before gazing into her fading eyes—what was a horde of Death Eaters against one indomitable Gryffindor?

"And . . ." She strained a trembling hand toward his face. "Because . . . I'm . . . yours."


	24. Filling Orders

A/N: In response to a couple of questions I've received, the 'magic' contraceptive potion can be taken before or after intercourse, and works for 1-2 days to prevent conception (please don't ask me for the exact details) ;) DSx

* * *

Severus strode from the Apparition point onto the mist-shrouded road, Hermione's limp body held tightly in his arms. He glanced down at her face, eyes closed, lips fallen apart, the moon's milky glow turning her pale skin almost translucent. Each time his gaze ventured downward, he was jolted anew by a fresh surge of anger and guilt. She had done this for him. He was responsible. And yet she wouldn't have been there if events had unfolded as planned. It should have been him—in this state or worse.

Gritting his teeth, he sped up despite the pain in his knee, she needed to be somewhere warm and safe.

As he approached the castle, two figures materialised out of the mist—shoulder to shoulder in the centre of the road, waiting.

"Thank Merlin!" Minerva's voice reached him before she took a few hesitant steps forward, raising a hand to touch his arm.

But he brushed past, continuing to forge toward the distant illumination of the castle.

"Severus!" Dumbledore hurried to catch up to him. "How is she?"

"Alive," he growled. "Little thanks to you."

"You must understand," Albus puffed as he struggled to maintain Severus' pace. "She would not be dissuaded."

Severus stopped abruptly. "She's a seventeen-year-old girl!" he cried, a violent blast of steam bursting from his mouth. "A student! Under our care! Have you forgotten?" He glared at Dumbledore whose tired features appeared grim and drawn. "Not everyone is fucking expendable," he spat before turning and continuing toward the castle.

"Poppy has been alerted, Severus," Dumbledore called forlornly after him.

"She will recover in my chambers. Under my care."

As he drew swiftly away, Minerva placed a hand on the Headmaster's shoulder. "Leave him."

Albus sighed. "It is too easy to judge a decision by the outcome, not the intention."

"And what was the intention?" Minerva asked. "To keep him alive? And to risk her life as a result?"

Albus continued to watch the receding figures. "Or to allow love to run its course . . .?"

"Perhaps." Minerva nodded in acknowledgement. "And perhaps now we should just be grateful that we still have them both."

* * *

He lay beside her, gently stroking her hair back from her forehead. He'd cast a number of healing incantations but, since she was still unconscious, there was little more he could do apart from letting her know that he was there. It was what had helped him most when she'd stayed with him after his experience with the enchantment's punishment—her touch had helped to draw him back.

But she'd been unconscious for so much longer already. He checked the mantel clock—3 a.m. Sliding down further under the covers, he rested his head on the pillow beside her, watching the subtle tremor of her nostrils with each breath.

He was immeasurably tired but he wanted to be there, awake and present, when she opened her eyes. In a way, he also wanted to be the first thing she saw, not because he fancied himself as being able to provide any particular comfort, but he'd been there when she'd dropped into unconsciousness and he considered that the continuity may help her to regain her bearings.

And he did happen to find watching her deeply comforting. For hours now he had simply observed her, taking in the elegant contours of her features, the graceful lines and soft hues, as well as every subtle twitch, sigh and flutter.

He knew that on some level it was reassurance—confirmation that they were both still alive. But another potent effect of watching her was the gradual attenuation of the fatalistic mindset that he'd forged in the infirmary. He hadn't expected to survive the evening. And he'd arranged everything to that end. He'd ensured that all of his affairs were in order, discussed a succession strategy for his teaching, which Dumbledore had assured him Slughorn could manage (somehow omitting certain other vital information), and had resigned himself to never seeing her again.

On one occasion, however, he had succumbed. Against Poppy's wishes, he'd left the infirmary to sit in one of the high towers and watch her by the lake, talking and laughing with friends. He knew she would be angry that he'd not said goodbye. After all, she'd already told him she expected him to want to survive, if only to repay her investment.

Still, the condition that she should attend a Death Eater gathering was never one he could entertain. It hadn't even crossed his mind to ask. It had been inconceivable. And yet, she'd appeared—like a knife to the stomach.

And she'd saved him . . . again. As she did every week.

In some ways he could forgive Dumbledore for forgetting—as he often had—that she was only seventeen.

Not only did she possess a razor-sharp intelligence, she also exhibited an uncommon level of emotional fortitude, unwavering tenacity and an exceptional commitment to moral integrity—so much so such that her final words had slain him . . . 'Because I'm yours.'

The memory still made his heart waver, on the verge of caving in. Grasping her hand between his, he traced his thumb in slow circles around the centre of her palm. Her eyebrow twitched a fraction before he felt her fingers flex within his. Keeping up the stimulation, he watched as her head jerked a little toward him. Then her eyes fluttered and opened.

She squinted at him before her face crumpled.

"Shit, that hurts," she whimpered.

He cast another wandless healing spell and started massaging her head until her grimace had softened, allowing himself a small smile when her eyes fell closed again.

"Hermione, don't go back to sleep," he murmured.

"Uhhh," she moaned, sliding her limbs around feebly between the sheets. "I need . . . to lie on you."

A second twitch captured his lips as he gently rolled her onto his chest. Her limbs sank comfortably between his as her head settled onto his heart. Her breathing immediately began to slow.

"You need to stay awake, Hermione." He lifted his head fractionally to look at her.

"I can't . . ." she groaned against his skin. "You . . . help."

His abdomen clenched, trying to stave off a chuckle. He had a feeling it might not be appreciated in that moment.

"How do you want me to help," he asked, his voice still betraying his amusement as he tunnelled his fingers into her hair and rubbed his fingertips against her scalp.

"Sing."

Then he had to snort.

"I don't."

She fell silent. He could hear her breathing begin to slow and regulate.

"Hermione?"

"Hum then," came her muffled response.

He raised both eyebrows. He couldn't remember the last time he'd hummed. It required a degree of light-heartedness that he hadn't likely felt for two or three decades. But—if it was going to help her remain awake.

The first song that came into his head was Handel's 'Sarabande'. In fact his mother had hummed it when whipping up an impressive cleaning storm around the house when he was a child.

Watching her rise as he drew in a deep breath, he started to hum. He was surprised how easily the tune came back to him, the years melting away. And as she lay there, he could see that her eyelashes remained open—she was listening. Although admittedly it would be difficult not to as she was practically lying on the source of the sound.

When he finished, she was quiet for a moment.

"More," she rasped.

It was like having a demanding toddler on his chest. But he figured she'd earned herself the right to be as childish and grumpy as she liked. And it happened to make him smile.

So he hummed a little more—parts of songs—some he remembered from school, others from home, ones from when he listened to the radio on the odd occasion that he returned to Spinner's End.

And she lay there, rising and falling on his chest, tapping her fingers against his bicep.

Gradually the tapping diminished.

"Hermione?"

No response. She was fast asleep. And he was on the verge of delirium.

There was no point in waking her again. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on top of her head.

Settling back, he released a long breath realising that, despite everything, the overriding emotion he felt in that moment was happiness. It felt tenuous and potentially transient but also like a gift—one that he'd never expected to receive again in his life.

* * *

Her vagina hurt. It throbbed. He must have fucked her pretty hard last night. But she couldn't even remember it. _Was it against the door again? Or had he just fingered her?_ He must have a pretty bloody big finger. He had a big cock. She knew that. But it didn't usually make her feel like this. Maybe she'd cast Histomalleus on it. Maybe she'd made it into some sort of giant—

"What are you smiling at?"

Her eyes flew open. She was lying on him again.

 _How did they end up here?_ _Had he come back from the infirmary?_

And as she looked into his face, those lovely black eyes, it all came flooding back, hitting her like a tidal wave.

"It's alright," he murmured, grasping her upper arm.

But it wasn't. She'd been brave for too long. She started to cry. She cried. And cried. And cried. And he held her, and wiped her face with the edge of the sheet, and rubbed her back, and conjured a glass of water, and helped her to the toilet for a pee which hurt like hell, and stood outside the shower as she scrubbed and cried. And finally, when she'd run out of tears and could barely breathe through a stuffy nose, he made her a cup of tea and toast in bed.

He was wearing that black dressing gown again, sitting on the edge of the bed with a hand resting on her knee as she ate. She didn't say a word throughout—it turned out that she was really bloody hungry. But when she'd slurped down the last of her tea, she told him.

"I'm not sorry."

He considered her a moment. "Not sorry about what?"

"I'm not sorry that I did it."

He looked down at the floor between his bare feet. He wished she hadn't done it—for what she'd put herself through. But sitting here with her in his bed, he couldn't help but be grateful.

Returning his gaze to her, he nodded.

"And can we never talk about it again? Unless absolutely necessary?"

He gave a second nod.

"And do you have some sort of balm for my vagina? It really hurts."

"Of course."

He stood and moved over to a cabinet where he instantly snapped up a glass jar.

As he returned, Hermione placed her breakfast tray on the ground before looking up at him.

"Will you apply it?"

"You're under my care. So it would only be appropriate."

Her lips curled into a grin but still she grasped his hand as he sat down beside her. "Be gentle."

"I'm always gentle." His mouth hitched up sexily at the corner.

"Not . . . always," she breathed, suddenly needing to kiss him.

Hooking a hand around his neck, she pulled him to her and they kissed—warm, sensual and delicious.

Sighing, she leaned back and pushed the covers down before spreading her legs. She was still naked, and as far as she could tell by the absence of clothing anywhere nearby, she'd probably seen the last of Parvati's dress . . . and possibly her bag and shoes. At least her wand seemed to have made it back, lying next to his on the bedside table.

Scooping some cream onto one finger, he watched her closely for signs of pain as he started by dabbing a little at her entrance. She winced but nodded at him to continue. Gradually he slid his finger inside and she inhaled rapidly, fisting the sheet in her hands. Waiting for her gaze to return to his, he continued to massage the balm deeper inside her. Gradually she started to relax, her legs easing apart and her fingers unfurling.

By the time he'd finished, her eyelids had dropped and her mouth was slack—she looked almost drugged.

A lazy smile curled her lips. "That feels soooo much better."

He snorted gently as he returned the lid to the balm and wandlessly dismissed it to the cabinet.

Reaching out, she grabbed his hand. "Can you go in there?"

It was pretty clear what she was asking. He shook his head. "The contraceptive will be in your system for another day or so."

She couldn't have looked more disappointed.

"But I can always . . . improvise."

Her face lit up. "Please."

Black eyes shining with amusement, he moved closer, leaning over to capture her lips with his. Her arms slipped around his neck and she moaned as his finger slid inside her. His other hand went to her breast and kneaded it before his fingertips closed around her nipple, rolling gently.

"Two?" he murmured against her lips.

She nodded quickly.

Slipping a second digit in beside the first, he felt her pelvis curl in to meet his thrust. She must be feeling better.

He was just so . . . delicious. She never tired of exploring his bold features with her lips, of tasting every crevice with her tongue. And the supple rhythm of his hand inside her was simply exquisite, even despite the residual discomfort. She wondered again how he'd managed to ejaculate so soon after receiving the punishment. It was really fucking painful. Or perhaps her early awkward attempts to stimulate him hadn't been so bad. Maybe she had a . . . knack. She smiled to herself. Not as much of a knack as he had, obviously, but still.

And then she felt him slipping through her hands, moving downward. Hot kisses left a smouldering trail from her earlobe to the base of her neck, before he tripped with a delicious flick of his tongue over her collar bone and continued his open-mouthed journey over her breast until he reached her nipple. Engulfing it, he sucked the sensitive peak forcefully into his mouth as his fingers flexed inside her, pressing against her walls.

She gasped and writhed under him, clutching his hair in both fists. Then he continued on, skimming lips and tongue across her abdomen and flicking with another erotic jolt into her navel before slipping down to settle between her pussy lips, his moist tip delicately reacquainting itself with her clitoris.

She just had to watch this. Straining her head up she glimpsed his delicious pink muscle laving and jostling her throbbing nub as his fingers continued to pump into her. He had the most beautiful mouth. And as she watched his sensuous lips fold around her clitoris, she felt her core contract with desire.

She had no intention of dwelling upon the comparison, but when she considered what some men (or creepy arseholes), assumed was erotic for women and what actually was erotic, she realised that they could be worlds apart. Fortunately she had found someone who was so in tune with her desires, and his own, that she felt herself on the verge of exploding with more than just physical need. Building inside her was an intense ball of emotional energy that she felt might shoot through her just like that fucking enchantment when she came. But this one wouldn't be sordid and hateful. This one would be filled with . . . love.

"Gods, Severus!" she cried out as she erupted, the overwhelming surge of sensation spilling over as tears. As her channel pulsed, she felt him still ensconced within her and she relished the sensation of coming around him. Clutching his head to her, she writhed, his delectable tongue continuing to lave until she shuddered to completion.

Withdrawing his fingers from her, he made to sit up before he could move, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him toward her so that she could kiss his wonderfully attentive lips, tasting her own muskiness on them and finding that she loved it.

Then she hugged him to her breasts and he lay there, arms nestled under either side of her body. As she revelled in the comfort of his weight upon her, she played with his hair—twining the soft ebony locks around her fingers in the same way she did to her own hair.

"I probably need to be getting back to my room before I'm missed," she said finally, looking with resignation at the mantel clock.

"Not unless you need something specific. The Headmaster's aware that you're staying with me," he spoke into her breasts.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "And he agreed to it?"

Severus sat up to regard her with dark, intense eyes. "Of course. You're mine."


	25. Open Order

Hermione drifted in and out of sleep throughout the day. She couldn't tell if it was an illusion created by her slightly-euphoric state of mind but his bed felt so much more comfortable than her own. And whenever she cracked her eyes open, a smile automatically crept to her lips. Sometimes he would be snoozing beside her, hands clasped across his stomach. Other times he would be reading or writing by the fire. On one occasion, she even woke up to find him simply lying on his side, watching her. And he smiled in return. And she had to kiss him.

He must have gone out at some stage because she woke to the sound of the door closing and an aroma that made her stomach growl.

Moments later he entered the bedroom, looking dashing in his usual impeccable black.

"Dinner is served."

Scrambling out of bed, Hermione pulled on his dressing gown—the only item of clothing available, and rushed into the lounge to find the table beautifully laid and, in the centre, a steaming Shepherd's pie with bowls of carrots and green beans.

He pulled out a chair for her, laying a crisp white napkin across her lap before taking his own seat. She really was beginning to feel like a Princess. It wasn't something she'd ever aspired to but she decided she could easily get used to it.

Holding up a bottle of red wine, he inclined his head to it. "Untainted."

"Yes, please." She smiled.

He proceeded to fill both glasses while Hermione helped herself to food.

She was about to take a delicious mouthful of pie when she noticed that he had his glass raised to her. She dropped her cutlery and picked up her own glass.

"To good health." He clinked his glass against hers. And it was clear from his expression that the acknowledgement went far deeper. She nodded with an appropriate level of gravity. He'd done an exceptional job of caring for her, after all.

Taking a sip, she returned her glass to the fine lace tablecloth.

"I remembered something earlier . . . that you . . . sang to me."

He swallowed a mouthful before responding.

"Hummed."

"It was very . . . tuneful."

"Obviously it wasn't a particularly accurate memory."

She smiled at his ability to deprecate them both, simultaneously.

"I liked it . . . Will you do it again?"

"Perhaps."

His black eyes flickered up to hers, and she had the endearing sense that he might even be a little shy about it.

She began to eat but her gaze continually sought him out. It was as though every feature had become more chiselled and every movement more graceful. The way he held his cutlery—the way he chewed and swallowed and sipped and dabbed. It was all so absorbing.

She was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to tell him.

"You are aware that I'm quite . . . fond of you aren't you?"

He stopped chewing, a gleam igniting the depths of his eyes.

"More than you used to be, at least."

"Much more." She jabbed her fork into a green bean. "I didn't know you."

He snorted. "Most people like me less when they know me."

"I'd be surprised."

He raised his eyebrows but continued eating.

"I'd be surprised if many people have been allowed to know you very well at all," she continued.

His chewing slowed as he appraised her over his wine glass. Taking a deep swallow, he narrowed his gaze.

"Not everyone feels the need to be an open book."

"You think I'm an open book?"

"You are quite . . . forthright in your expressions."

"And yet I managed to deceive a room full of highly distrustful Death Eaters? I'd say I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

He smirked, brushing his leg against hers. "Up your . . . 'sleeve'?"

She gave an embarrassed smile. "I said we weren't talking about that."

"You were the one to bring it up."

"And I'll be the one to shut it down."

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug before taking another sip of wine.

"So . . . now it's your turn." She swivelled her fork distractedly between her fingertips. "To share your . . . feelings."

He placed his glass down. And she instantly became self-conscious under his intense gaze.

"Feelings?"

"Yes . . . I've detected that you actually have some."

He leaned toward her. "This is the happiest I've been in my life."

Hermione choked. That was far more than she'd bargained for. Pressing her napkin over her mouth she did her best to recover. "I'm sorry . . . I just didn't expect . . ."

"Honesty?"

"No . . . I mean . . . Yes."

He resumed eating.

But she couldn't. She'd completely lost her appetite . . . for food. It has been replaced by an all-consuming appetite for him. She wanted to eat him up, right there, lips first.

Draining her wine, she pushed her chair back and approached him. He froze with his cutlery in his hands as she lifted her leg to straddle his lap before settling herself against his groin.

"You . . . are one of the most beautiful people I've ever met," she murmured, gazing into his impossibly black eyes. "I'm so grateful to be here with you."

As she kissed him, she heard his cutlery clatter onto his plate before his arms were around her, one hand raking into the hair at the nape of her neck, the other pulling her pelvis into him. His kiss was powerful and passionate and laced with red wine—an intoxicating combination. She arched over him, gaining deeper access to his open mouth, her tongue probing and twining with his in a battle of mounting desires.

Before she'd even resumed her position on his lap, she sensed his member jutting up against her backside, making her feel simultaneously aroused and apologetic. She wished she could just play with it for a bit, but that would just exacerbate the torture. And she couldn't expect him to keep servicing her with nothing in return.

Sliding her fingers through his hair, she was struck by an inspiration. _Massage_. She would give him a massage to provide some relief.

She broke away, panting lightly. "Do you have oil?"

"You're asking a Potions Master if he has oil?"

"Massage oil?"

"Of couse."

"I'd like to give you a massage . . . to help you to . . . relax."

He raised an eyebrow. "You expect a topless massage to relax me?"

"Who said I'd be topless?"

"I did," he rumbled darkly, yanking his dressing gown from her naked body in an impressive display of wandless magic.

Her core surged in exhilaration. She so wanted to fuck him. His head bent to her chest and he flicked his tongue out to wet the point of one nipple.

"Severus, no. This isn't about me. I want to do this for you," she moaned.

"This is for me," he muttered, sucking the entire areola into his mouth.

She could already feel her pussy pumping out some serious lubrication. _Gods! He had her on tap_. Then he pressed her hips downward until she was grinding against the impressive bulge in his trousers. It must be pretty bloody uncomfortable for him. But for her, abrading her swollen clitoris against his straining wool-encased mound was utterly—

"If you keep doing that you're going to make me come," she whimpered.

"I like making you come," he replied, emphasising the final word against her ear, causing an erotic flush to burn her cheeks.

"But I'm making your . . ." She gasped as he squeezed her nipple with his fingers. "Your trousers wet."

"I'm aware . . . I can feel it . . . on my cock." Another word striking directly at her core.

"Oh, Gods," she breathed as he began thrusting upwards against her and rolling her hips rhythmically with one large hand.

She made the mistake of kissing him and the forceful probing of his tongue brought her even closer.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she was ground right up to the edge. Her head pitched backwards but he grabbed her hair, tipping it forward so he could watch her face as she came. He gradually dragged himself up and down her clitoris, teasingly, excruciatingly, watching her jaw fall open and her eyelashes flare. She'd stopped breathing. And he held her there. One second. Two. Before thrusting hard, causing the breath to explode from her in violent bursts.

"Unnhhh . . . uhhh . . . uhh." Each bodily convulsion seemed to push another groan from the depths of her chest. Her hips jerked around in his hands as her entire pelvis seized and grabbed, adding another flow of release to the patch already soaked into his poor trouser-bound cock.

Hermione had never orgasmed like that before—by simply rubbing herself against something, even if it was something she was very fond of. It felt more erotic for the primal nature of it—like some sort of animalistic rutting or something.

But he was still very naughty. When she'd regained a little composure she tried her best to look exasperated but he simply chuckled and kissed her, which of course made all of her pretend annoyance melt away.

Then he lifted her off his lap and stood, apparently unconcerned about the wet stain on his groin.

"So am I going to get this massage or not?" he asked brusquely.

Hermione's mouth fell open, but the spark in his eye betrayed the fact that he was clearly trying to wind her up. Ignoring the bait, she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom.

"Oil?"

He called forth a bottle from the cabinet and handed it to her.

"If you would just lie on the bed for me, please?"

"On my front?"

"Yes."

He looked down at the massive tent in the front of his trousers.

"Well perhaps I can transfigure the mattress into two smaller ones. You can lie in the gap and stick your—"

"I'm not sticking my dick between two mattresses."

"I was going to say 'nose' actually," she replied.

Now it was his turn to stand open-mouthed.

"I'm joking!" She reached up to touch his cheek. "I love it . . . I mean . . . I really . . . I like it . . . it suits you."

She knew she was gabbling but she'd never ventured such a blatant insult and the word 'love' in quick succession and it had her flustered.

"Well, it didn't suit you," he retorted, before releasing the buttons of his coat and tossing it onto a chair.

He was referring to her first Histomalleus spell—when she'd deliberately tried to annoy him with her massive nose. It was actually quite cute that he hated it enough to remind her.

"So you prefer my nose as it is?"

"I prefer everything as it is."

That was a very nice thing to say.

"What about when I enhanced my breasts."

That appeared to challenge him. He stared at her breasts for so long that she decided to throw in a couple of breast poses to assist him.

"I still think I prefer the current ones."

"And my buttock enhancements?"

He inhaled deeply before releasing the words in a rush. "Let's just get on with this shall we?"

He liked her big butt. She couldn't help the smirk that spread across her face but he ignored it, removing his shirt, boots, trousers and boxers in quick succession before crawling onto the bed and lowering himself gently onto his front.

She liked his back, particularly the shape of it—muscular and tapered. It was going to be quite delicious to be able to touch it properly. But she couldn't decide on the best position. She considered kneeling beside him but it didn't seem quite right, and she wouldn't be able to get much downward force from that angle. So she decided, instead, to sit on him. Her pussy was still wet from coming and whilst she could have cast a cleansing spell, the state in which he'd left his trousers suggested he wouldn't mind if she sat on him as she was.

Leaning down, she grabbed her wand and cast a warming incantation on the oil bottle before crawling onto the bed and straddling him. As she sat on his lower back he made an exaggerated grunting sound.

"I'm not that heavy." She smacked him on the bottom before slithering back to sit on it, and although his face was buried in his folded arms, she suspected he was smirking.

Pouring a little oil into her cupped hand, she placed her thumb at the base of his spine and allowed the oil to trickle onto his skin before pressing down with the heel of her hand and rolling it up a thick band of muscle along his side. He let out a genuine groan. Now it was her turn to smirk. She'd suspected that his cock wasn't the only part of him that was as stiff as a board.

Pouring more oil onto both hands, she rubbed them together and then set to work, lifting onto her knees to press down on him as she kneaded his muscles.

"Breathe," she commanded.

She felt him release the breath he'd been holding. There was clearly so much tension in his body, it was proving quite painful. Letting up a little, she used her thumbs to work her way up to his neck and shoulders, tying his hair up out of the way with a holding spell. He didn't complain.

Shuffling forward, she worked down to his bicep and tricep, enjoying the feeling of rubbing the large pliant muscles through her slippery fingers. She grasped his forearm and was about to start on it when he suddenly pulled away.

"Don't . . . touch that."

She was taken aback. He'd been so quiet.

"Your arm?"

"My . . ." He rolled his arm over to show his Dark Mark.

"I'm sorry . . . I didn't . . . does it hurt?"

He suddenly rolled over and grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. "Not as much as you do," he whispered into her hair.

She wasn't sure if he was referring to her slightly brutal massage technique or something else but she loved being in his arms and he was kissing her again. And slowly but surely, he kissed her back to sleep.

* * *

Hermione woke to a roar. She was disoriented for a moment and then rolled over to see Severus walking by with only a towel around his waist.

"What was that sound?"

"Quidditch match."

She sat up. "Oh, shit, already? I must have lost track of the days? Do you need to attend?"

"I should."

She sighed. She'd promised Harry and Ron that she would go along to watch but she didn't really feel up to it.

"I might go back to my room while the castle is practically empty," she said.

He looked up from where he'd started buttoning up his shirt.

"That's . . . probably for the best."

"Oh, I'll be back," she responded hurriedly. "Unless, of course . . . you'd prefer me not to?"

"Ensure you're back by this evening," he stated matter-of-factly, flicking the buttons closed at his wrists. "For our . . . appointment."

A grin spread across her face. Yes. Their 'appointment'. She could feel herself stirring already. She had a feeling it was going to be the longest, hardest and most exhausting appointment she'd ever kept. And she couldn't wait.

* * *

Hermione hurried through the corridors in her transfigured outfit. It was basically just one of his black robes, long enough to drag along the ground, and nothing else. Thankfully she only encountered a couple of first years along the way and, as she'd hoped, the Gryffindor common room was totally empty when she finally padded through.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, look who's here."

Hermoine spun around to see Parvati leaning back on her desk chair, a quill dangling between two fingers.

"I thought everyone would be at the match," Hermione exclaimed, pulling the robe more tightly around her.

"Nah, I decided to write some letters instead." Parvati frowned at her. "McGonagall said you were ill in the hospital wing and not taking visitors."

"Oh, yes," Hermione smiled sheepishly. "I had a . . . virus . . . or something."

"Or something?"

"Yes . . . they weren't sure."

Parvati tossed her quill down and swivelled to face her. "Well I might have to get myself some of that virus because, for want of a less nauseating word, you are . . . glowing."

Hermione could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. "Really? I did have quite a lot of . . . sleep."

Parvati's dark eyes appraised her and Hermione could tell she was unconvinced.

"How did the dress go?"

"Oh shit, I'm so sorry Vati, you're not going to believe it but I've . . . I've actually misplaced it."

"Misplaced? Must have been a good night."

"I have the money to pay for it. It was really very generous of you and I'm so sorry to have been so careless." Hermione's words came out in a rush.

Parvati shook her head. "I'm not that into dresses. Don't worry about it."

"No, really, I insist." Hermione rushed over to her desk and opened a drawer, pulling out her money tin.

"It's fine." Parvati raised a hand. "Take me out to lunch or something."

"But . . . that would never pay—"

"I eat a lot."

Hermione smiled apologetically before dropping the money back in the tin. "If you insist. But I really am sorry."

"Show me how sorry you are by telling me the truth." Parvati crossed her arms with a wry grin. "Did you pick up?"

Hermione couldn't help the smile that crept across her lips. "As a matter of fact, yes. I've met an amazing man."

Parvati's eyebrows rose noticeably at the word 'man.'

"He's just so . . . surprising. Tender and caring but brave and protective. I just . . . I'm quite overwhelmed by how I feel about him."

"Sounds a little too good to be true," Parvati muttered.

"Perhaps."

"And rather quick wouldn't you say?"

"Yes . . . and no."

Parvati sighed. "Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am."

Hermione smiled gratefully at her. "Thanks, but I really can't imagine changing my mind. Not about this one."


	26. Call to Order

Hermione took a long, hot shower, rubbing her hands all over herself and imagining it was him. It didn't feel nearly as good as the delectable caresses of his beautiful hands, but she had only a few hours to wait until she'd be able to indulge in the real thing.

 _The happiest he'd ever been_. She still couldn't quite believe he'd said it. What a disclosure for a man as painfully private as he. It had nearly made her cry. But she'd decided to engage in a little frottage with him instead. She wished she'd handled it better—choking into her napkin probably hadn't adequately conveyed the true depth of her feeling. Still, hopefully he realised how much she appreciated his words, and how happy she was with him. He even had her 'glowing.'

"I thought a basilisk must have dragged you down the plug hole," Parvati commented as Hermione returned to the bedroom.

"No, I was just . . ."

"Masturbating?"

 _Pretty close to it_. "No. Not this time."

Parvati snorted as she continued to write.

Hermione changed into clean clothing and then proceeded to pack a bag with spare clothes, toiletries, books and a quill.

"It's really none of my business." Parvati looked up from her parchment. "But would you happen to be heading off for a bit more 'virus' action?"

Hermione's face instantly betrayed her. "Vati, you can't tell anyone." She gazed at the dark haired girl pleadingly. "I know I've asked this of you before, but no one can know. Please, can you keep it to yourself?"

"So he's here, then? At Hogwarts?"

Hermione stared at her, desperately needing to finally share with someone. It had been so hard having to keep it to herself this whole time.

She nodded.

"Student?"

Hermione grimaced, her body was desperately trying to stop her from responding, but she managed a tiny shake of her head.

"Well that narrows it down just a tad." Parvati leaned back in her seat. "I have a suspicion it's not Hooch, more's the pity."

Hermione rubbed a hand across her face. She shouldn't be entertaining this at all.

"You know who I think it is?" Parvati stretched, folding her hands behind her head. "I think it's that surly but quite deliciously sarcastic beast haunting the dungeons."

Hermione suddenly coughed into her palm.

"Ha!" Parvati rose from her seat. "Have you really been getting a bit of Snape's grumpy old Slytherin sausage?"

Hermione snorted. She should have been mortified at having disclosed something so serious but the look of delight on Parvati's face was priceless.

"I'd do him . . . if I was that way inclined." She smirked, sauntering closer. "Actually . . . how big's his bed? Perhaps I could come down and visit you both sometime?"

"I'm not sure he's that way inclined either," Hermione grinned.

"He doesn't have to be. It's you I'm more interested in." Her dark eyes flashed.

"Vati . . . I don't know how to break this to you," Hermione shook her head ruefully, watching a smile of resignation curl Pavarti's lips. "But you're one seriously good kisser."

Parvati blew out a long sigh. "I was hoping you wouldn't destroy a fantasy that's been three years in the making."

"Three years?" Hermione looked at her incredulously. "It sounds like you need a new fantasy."

Parvati caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she appraised Hermione. "No . . . I think I'll stick with this one a bit longer. The whole point of a fantasy is that it feels just a little bit . . . unattainable."

"A little bit?"

Parvati nodded with a grin. "I'm a seriously good kisser, remember?"

* * *

Hermione's heart leapt when she heard the door to his chambers open. She'd finished reading her book and couldn't be bothered starting another; made two pots of tea and was sick of drinking it; and had only just managed to hold off looking through his enticing shelves, not wanting to risk dampening his mood.

As it turned out, however, she needn't have been concerned about his mood as he was already undressing as he strode through the bedroom door. Tearing off layer after layer, he descended upon her, trapping her under the covers before lunging at her throat. She tried unsuccessfully to wriggle free and so was at his mercy as he began his systematic deconstruction of her.

He laved and sucked at her pulse, damp breaths scudding across her skin as the fine rasp of his chin grazed deliciously into the hollow of her collar bone.

"Severus," she moaned, her head rolling with each fresh surge of his hungry mouth, escalating like a gathering tempest. Delving the ridge of his nose into the cleft beneath her jaw, he forced it upward so that he could seize upon the flesh between her earlobe and the nape of her neck—the graze of his teeth there making her entire complement of hair follicles leap to attention. She only just held back a squeal, a high breathy grunt escaping her lips instead.

He clamped onto her earlobe, tugging and sucking at it before his tongue flickered out to worm its way into the intimate tunnel of her ear, the slick, thrusting assault prickling her flesh and sending another delicious shudder down her spine.

"Uhhhh," she groaned, making further useless attempts to break free, desperately wanting to touch him.

But it seemed he had other plans.

Finally sitting back from her, breathing heavily, he yanked the covers off her naked body, catching her wrists as she tried to touch him. Wandlessly he bound them together before leaning forward to bind them to the bedhead.

"Oh Gods."

It was a realisation—a whimpered surrender. She could feel it. He was taking her somewhere she'd never been before. And whilst she was committed—she was on for the ride. She really didn't know what she was in—

"Ohhhh!" The rising moan erupted from her as he grasped both nipples and twisted them until she arched off the bed. The burn quickly sizzled right through her core until she was throbbing like a nuclear reactor.

 _How did he know? Had he read the Hermione Granger user's manual? Or was he simply in the process of writing it . . . right . . . now._

Grasping both breasts in his hands, he forced them together, engulfing one in a ravenous mouthful before extruding the nipple like pulled toffee, plying it with long, firm strokes of his tongue. Releasing one throbbing point, he started on the other, moving between the two in quick succession until her nerve endings were singing, shooting signals to distant parts of her body, and recruiting them into a maelstrom of firing that had every millimetre of her body sensitised to him.

Only then did he fully unleash himself on her.

She was clay. And he was an artist—creating in violent bursts. Hollowing and smearing, plunging and dredging, pulling responses from her body that were raw and carnal and had her trembling on the precipice of release over and over. When her voice was hoarse and she was sobbing with need, he stopped, his body slick with perspiration.

"Don't . . . hold . . . back," he whispered against her lips, the closest he'd come to kissing her the entire time.

Then he flipped her over onto her stomach, spread her legs, and released one of her hands only, pulling it behind her. Carefully, he folded her fingers so that only her index and middle fingers remained extended and then proceeded to draw them slowly up and down the cleft between her buttocks, before settling both fingertips at her puckered entrance.

Holding her hand there, he leaned over and murmured in her ear. "Histomalleus."

Her forehead dropped to the mattress. _What was he going to do?_

She didn't know why she even bothered posing the question. She would do whatever he wanted. Because it was what she wanted.

Wandlessly, she cast the spell and felt her entrance change—enlarge and relax. He reattached her hand to the bed head before running both palms down her back in what she sensed was only a brief interlude—the eye of the storm.

Drawing a shuddering breath, she tried to relax but was so aroused that she was finding it difficult.

Then she felt it. The velveteen touch of his cock against her buttocks. His warm, silken head trailed across both mounds, back and forth before slipping down to rest at her entrance. She'd expected him to move her onto her knees at some point for better access—but he didn't. Instead, she felt his thighs slip to the outside of hers before he palmed both her labia and buttocks apart at once and thrust inside her.

She moaned into the mattress. It was so good having him inside her again. And in this position, with her legs enclosed within his, her pussy felt more constricted, making his impressive girth even more evident. After plunging in and out a few times, he placed one hand on the back of her neck and the other on her lower back and began rocking her entire body in a steady rhythm that matched his long, fluid strokes into her.

Thankfully her arms were attached low enough that she could rest on her elbows as the way he was bouncing her into the mattress and allowing the recoil to slam her back into his cock meant that she definitely required some small point of support.

He sped up the rhythm until her head was rattling back and forth and her pussy felt like it was being pounded into the permanent shape of his cock. As her pussy tightened, he slowed, not willing to let her come. She huffed with a mixture of relief and frustration. Her whole body was aching for release.

The sound of something hitting his palm reached her and, moments later, she felt his finger at her back entrance, covered with a layer of something cold and slippery. There was a little pressure as he breached the tight ring of muscle, sliding into her.

It wasn't nearly as bad as she'd anticipated. She didn't know if it was the fact that she'd cast the Histomalleus previously, but the sensation of being penetrated and then stimulated over and over with each gradually deepening thrust of his finger seemed more intense than painful. And as he resumed driving his cock into her pussy, she found that the combined sensation brought a whole new level of appreciation for the intensity that could be achieved with bodily stimulation.

Then he took it up a notch. A second finger joined the first and suddenly the burning sting had her gasping. But his other hand moved to rest just over her tailbone and as he pushed down with his full weight, he began plunging into her pussy much more forcefully. The added stimulation seemed to overwhelm the sensation in her rectum to the point that her entire pelvis just became one thumping ball of friction-induced tension.

All she could do was groan. To have so much energy focused upon such a small part of her body made her feel like a pressure cooker. And the explosion was coming. He began rotating his fingers with each thrust into her rectum, reigniting her passage and making her muscles spasm. And his cock still hadn't let up.

It was all too much. Burying her face in the mattress, she let out a throat-shredding scream as her entire body was wracked by convulsions. A moment later he joined her, a guttural shout bursting from him as he pumped his seed into her spasming channel.

It seemed to go on much longer than she could ever remember an orgasm lasting—as though her muscles had been so hyper-sensitised that they continued to seize in self-perpetuating waves that left her heaving for breath, wrung out and trembling. And as her arms were released, she moaned at the sudden realisation of how much pain there was.

But then it all changed. He cast spell after spell, cleansing, healing and cooling her before rolling her into his arms.

"I realised too late," he murmured, kissing her gently on her wet cheeks. She wasn't aware that she'd been crying.

"Realised what?" she rasped weakly.

"That it was too much."

"No . . . no it wasn't." She shook her head as vigorously as her exhaustion would allow. "That was incredible . . . I've never felt anything like it. That's what I wanted . . . to be challenged . . . to find my limits."

"It seems you found them." He traced a finger over her lips, still looking concerned.

"Not even close," she smiled, darting her tongue out to lick his fingertips. "I'll tell you when I've had enough . . . And in the meantime I expect you to come up with a few more of those . . . handy . . . little . . . tricks."

He shook his head faintly as his gaze intensified. "I find you extraordinary," he whispered.

"And I find you so extraordinary that I don't want to take my contraceptive potion."

His eyes widened in alarm.

"I mean . . . I don't want to take is straight away. Because . . . I'd like to go again . . . and maybe . . . again and . . . Anyway, do we need to continue to follow the Order's expectations to fulfil the enchantment only once a week?"

"I happen to think it's time we informed the Order of the new regimen," he said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Which is?"

"Whenever we fucking feel like it," he growled, kissing her neck and making her shriek with laughter.

* * *

He'd said to give him five minutes. She clearly didn't want anyone to see her leaving his rooms, so she was waiting for him to prepare the Potions classroom to enable her to slip in without suspicion. In the meantime, she wandered around his chambers, looking at nothing in particular and thinking about the extraordinary evening they'd shared.

They'd fucked three times more. But the last time had been so slow and gentle and sleepy, his forehead resting against hers, their bodies melting together, that in her mind they'd been making love. And the blossoming feeling in her chest only confirmed what she'd come to suspect—she was in love with him. She loved him.

He wasn't the most sensible person in the world to have fallen in love with from a practical perspective—she realised that. But there was absolutely nothing that her logical brain could do to convince her that it wasn't the case, or that she should somehow try to stifle her feelings. She loved him and she would tell him. In fact—she gave an excited little jump—she might even tell him today.

* * *

"What happened to you?" Harry whispered, joining her beside their cauldron.

Hermione glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

"Oh, I've just had this virus." She started chopping a small bunch of red roots. "It was really strange . . . came on suddenly. They didn't want anyone else to get it so I was sort of quarantined."

"We could have visited—just not gotten too close."

"I know. I said that . . . Can you weigh out those beetle wings please? . . . It was a bit of overkill really. How did the Quidditch match go?"

"Not too bad, we beat the HuffleDuffers as expected. Ron had a few good saves. I missed the Snitch." He shook the jar of beetle wings out onto the scales. "Would have been good if you'd made it."

"I know. I'm really sorry." Hermione could see the disappointment on Harry's face. They'd really spent very little time together over the past couple of months. "Do you want a game of chess later?"

He snorted. "You hate chess."

"How about a walk then?"

"Yeah, alright." A reluctant grin spread across his face. "I have a feeling you've got a few things to tell me."

 _Did she?_

"Parvati said you were with Snape."

"What?!"

"On detention. Lavender saw you going down to the Dungeons and Parvati said the old git had given you detention for not getting the last assignment in—even though you were sick."

Hermione sighed inwardly. "Yes . . . It was a bit rough . . . uh . . . unfair. You know—just writing boring lines and stuff."

"And stuff?"

"Cleaning."

"Git," Harry muttered glancing at Snape. "He's watching you like a hawk too. You must have really pissed him off."

She looked up to see Severus staring at her, her insides instantly clenching. "Yes . . . it was quite a severe . . . punishment."

Dragging her eyes away from him, Hermione tried to focus on their potion.

"I'll start stirring, if you can add the wings a few at a time."

As Harry began dropping wings into the cauldron, Hermione looked around the room to see what everyone else was up to.

Her eyes settled upon Draco who was working alone at the back. He looked terrible—skin so pale it was almost grey, eyes bloodshot, and as he stirred, she could see a definite tremble to his fingers. Despite everything, she suddenly felt sorry for him. The enchantment was clearly taking a heavy toll.

She'd tried to block it out, but she'd known the remaining Death Eaters would have had very little time after her stunt with Lucius to fulfil the enchantment. _Had Draco managed to do it? He was still here . . . but at what cost?_

Not for the first time, she felt the unease in the pit of her stomach when she considered who the easiest prey for the Death Eaters were—females of non-childbearing age—older women and children. It made her sick to think about it but she wondered if they had been targeted. _And could she have made it more likely due to her actions on Friday night?_

Something else came back to her then too. _Why had Lucius Malfoy insisted that the bodily transformation could only be achieved through Polyjuice? Why not the Histomalleus spell?_ It was something she'd been meaning to ask Severus. They were having lunch in his chambers that afternoon—she would ask him then.

* * *

"Is there something wrong?" Severus regarded her with concern as she sat by the fire, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Hermione sighed. "There are just a few things I don't understand . . . about the enchantment."

Severus' frown deepened but he didn't ask her what they were.

"Why didn't Malfoy suggest the Histomalleus spell as a method of bodily transformation, as well as Polyjuice?"

Hermione noticed Severus' finger tapping against his folded arms. He seemed reluctant to answer. Finally he shrugged. "Perhaps they don't know about the effects of the Histomalleus spell."

Hermione looked at him in confusion. "Don't know? Why wouldn't they know? It's their enchantment. Don't they understand how it works?"

He flicked his hand dismissively but Hermione noticed how uncomfortable he still appeared. "Who knows? It's a complicated enchantment. All of the elements may not be fully understood."

"But you understand them."

He didn't respond. Then she saw it, his thumb drawing along the cuticle of his ring finger. That nervous gesture she'd identified right back on their first day together.

She realised then that her heart was thumping. It was something she'd tried to ignore, but it had been with her the whole time. She needed to know the truth once and for all.

Hermione stood on shaky legs.

"Severus, I will ask you this only once. But if you care about me at all, you will answer me honestly." She took a deep breath. "Did you create the enchantment for Voldemort?"

"No."

Relief flooded her as she collapsed back onto the chair.

Then he levelled his eyes at her, a torrent of guilt and anguish washing over his face. "I devised the enchantment . . . for myself."


	27. Past Orders

A/N: I wanted to get this up quickly as I don't like to leave you hanging. Just need to let you know that this chapter is pretty heavy. Please don't lose hope. DSx

* * *

Hermione's lips moved but no words came out.

Finally she managed a hoarse, "What?"

Severus stood looking at the ground. He didn't respond.

"What did you say?" Hermione ground out. "You made the enchantment . . . for yourself?"

His lips parted but still he said nothing.

"Severus. Tell me." Her words were strained—pleading.

He shook his head as he turned his palms upward, clearly struggling with how to explain himself. "My books," he said quietly.

Her face crumpled in confusion. "I don't . . ."

Finally he looked at her.

"The enchantment was written a long time ago. Side notes in one of my books. It was stolen and ended up . . . in the wrong hands."

"You wrote it? The enchantment . . . for the Muggle decree . . . years ago?" Her words came in disbelieving bursts.

"Yes. I was still a teenager."

Her mouth fell open. "But why? Why would you conceive of something so . . . evil?"

"I . . ." He shook his head again. "I was . . . angry."

"You were angry so you wrote an enchantment to force Death Eaters to rape Muggles?"

He wiped a hand across his mouth. "I must admit . . . I don't understand the person I was then either."

Hermione stared at him, suddenly realising how pitifully little she knew about him and his past.

"You were already a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"But back then Voldemort was even more determined to protect pure Wizarding bloodlines. Why would you even consider such a thing?"

"As I said. It wasn't for him." Severus' voice suddenly rose. "It wasn't intended to be seen at all. It was a . . . a fantasy written by a jealous and enraged young man. A fictional punishment. I'm equally disgusted by it now. But . . . at the time I was trying to reconcile . . . pain and betrayal. I just . . ."

He lifted a hand before allowing it to drop by his side, having seemingly run out of words.

Hermione was still churning through the explanation. There were so many parts that didn't make sense.

"But who were you punishing? Death Eaters or Muggles? As far as I can tell the enchantment is a blight on both."

"It wasn't really about that . . . it was . . ." He looked into the fire with a deep sigh. ". . . It was personal."

 _Personal?_

Hermione clutched the arm of the chair. "Severus, who were you trying to punish?" Her voice held a note of urgency.

He continued to stare into the flames, his black eyes dancing but joyless.

"There were . . . certain individuals who made my school life a misery. It took me a long time to deal with it. I conceived of spells and enchantments as a surrogate for doing so. Some came to fruition. Others were never intended as anything other than . . . malicious . . . thoughts." His words seemed to float away . . . light and distant.

"But the enchantment is so very specific." Hermione tried to drag him back. "Every part has been conceived for a very specific outcome. Who was the intended target? A Muggle?"

He turned to gaze at her, a deep sadness pulling at his features.

"A Muggle-born."

 _He'd mentioned jealousy_.

"A Muggle-born . . . witch?" She leaned toward him, trying to catch his eyes. She needed to see them.

His eyes closed.

"Yes."

Hermione felt as though she'd been shot with pure adrenaline.

"There was only one . . ." Her voice shook slightly. "Back then. It had to be Lily Potter . . . Harry's mother."

He didn't need to respond. She already knew.

"And you hated her so much that you conceived of an enchantment for her to be raped?" Hermione looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. "What the fuck was wrong with you?!" she cried, thumping the chair.

Severus looked up, squinting as though in pain. "That . . . that was never the intention."

"Then why? She would obviously be targeted. In fact she'd be sought after . . . she could be used again and again to . . . service them."

The way he instantly raised his chin, as though recoiling from some awful truth, told her she was close. As a Death Eater, under the decree he could have potentially held her against her will and used her—punished her for any perceived wrongdoings. But he'd already indicated that that wasn't the intention.

"How long after you conceived the enchantment did you defect and join the Order of the Phoenix?" she asked quietly.

"Two years."

"Did Dumbledore approach you? Try to encourage you to return?"

His eyes dipped back to the ground. "On many occasions."

"But early on you were still angry. She was there—a member of the Order. And she'd rejected you . . ." His eyes snapped up to hers. "Yet Dumbledore had promised to protect you if you returned. You knew the Order would look after you . . . appease you even."

His jaw tightened but he didn't attempt to defend himself.

"If the decree was in place when you returned, the Order would ask her . . . implore her even . . ." Hermioine's voice was tight. "Tell her she was the only one with that unique 'profile.' That she was the only one who could be 'trusted'. That if she cared about the future of the Wizarding world, she would do everything asked of her to protect you."

She had to stop—the lump in her throat was choking her. But when she looked at him a fresh wave of anger surged inside her. "Even though she was married . . . they would have asked. And she would have agreed. She was that sort of person—brave and protective." She drew a shuddering breath. "The sort of person who would risk her own life to protect her son."

Severus was blinking rapidly, drawing in deep breaths of his own. But she forged on, her voice rising.

"You knew you could never attract her—you'd already tried that. So you chose some process that would force it." She clenched her hands into desperate fists. "And you thought that if she had sex with you, that you'd eventually win her over. That eventually, over time, she would fall in love with you. Just like . . ."

Her hand flew to her mouth in an attempt to stifle the sob. He was there, arms around her but she pushed him away, lunging up from the chair. "Don't you fucking touch me," the strangled words tore from her throat.

His face contorted with emotion. "But it didn't happen. They were just . . . foolish thoughts . . . fantasies. They were never meant—"

"I have fantasies and they don't fucking look like that," she shouted. She wouldn't tell him what they looked like. Never again. Her heart wouldn't survive it.

"Hermione." Her eyes closed in pain at his voice. "I was stupid . . . immature . . . irrational . . . I was a fucking kid."

"You were older than me," Hermione ground out.

"But I wasn't like you." She opened her eyes to see the tears in his. "I could never be like you."

She bit her lip, shaking her head as her own tears started to fall.

"I can't tell you what I was thinking because I'm not that boy anymore. I don't identify with him in any way. I didn't return until I'd stopped thinking like that. I'd grown up. The Muggle decree and the enchantment that enables it are abominable. The shame I feel is indescribable. And I've spent my life trying to atone for my thoughts and actions in Voldemort's service . . . please believe me."

"And yet, despite this apparent 'abomination' you've never had a problem 'performing' for it. You've always managed to fulfill the enchantment despite knowing its origins—despite knowing that I've been fucking manipulated. That I was set up!"

"But I never wanted it to be you. I told them. I told them what a poor choice you were. You were a virgin for fuck's sake," he cried.

"And yet I agreed. I did it." She winced from the emotional pain. "And it's all played out . . . exactly as you intended . . . but with the wrong woman . . . more . . . fool . . . me."

His face was in his hands. She pressed her arms into her stomach, trying to quell the pain. They stood together in silent agony for a long time until she finally spoke.

"Did you build in an exit?" she rasped. "A back door . . . to destroy the enchantment?"

Severus raked his hands through his hair before nodding almost imperceptibly.

"Does the Dark Lord know about it?"

His head shake was similarly slight.

"Why, then, haven't you used it?"

"I can't." The anguish in his voice was palpable.

She fixed her gaze upon his ashen face. "Why? What does it require?"

He suddenly turned away from her, propping one hand against the mantel for support.

"Tell me how the enchantment is broken, Severus." Her voice was raw. "You owe me the truth."

"It was never meant to happen," he whispered.

"But it did happen. It's happening right now." She threw the words at his back. "What is it? Blood bonded? Whose blood was used to create it?"

He released a wretched groan. "The Dark Lord's."

"Then whose blood can break it?"

Silence.

"Whose blood, Severus?" Her voice rose.

There was a long pause. "It requires a sacrifice."

It was like a punch to the stomach. The world started closing in. She was struggling to draw breath.

"Let me guess . . ." Her chest heaved. "A Muggle-born witch?"

He didn't respond.

"What did he use? To draw the blood?"

Severus' voice was dead, emotionless. "A ceremonial dagger."

"And in what manner is the sacrifice to be taken?" Her voice was shaking.

His back remained turned. "The same dagger. Just below the . . . navel."

Hermione looked down, her eyes trawling over her own body.

"Her uterus . . ." she whispered in realisation. "If she spurned you, the exit was intended to kill her, and probably yourself. And it would ensure that if she was carrying a baby, it would be killed too."

She was on the verge of being sick.

He turned back to her, his face desolate.

"It was never meant to happen," he repeated hopelessly. "The entire thing was just angry, irrational thoughts . . . a feeble attempt at retaliation . . . hidden away inside a book . . . to appease the sad, pathetic creature that I was. It was never what I wanted. I didn't even dwell upon it. It was just one of a number of externalisations . . . imaginings of power for someone who felt . . . essentially powerless . . . impotent . . . and alone."

"You deserve to be alone," she ground out bitterly.

"I know."

A tremor captured his lips.

"And yet for the first time in my life, I'd let myself believe that it wasn't the case. I never thought I'd be able to escape it . . . my abhorrent past. But these months . . . with you . . . admittedly of deception, of delusion . . . have been the best of my life. I'm undeserving of it . . . as you now know but I am . . . grateful. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I'm sorry that you feel this was all a set up—a lie. But know . . . my feelings are real. Hermione, I love you."

His tears were falling freely.

She couldn't stand it any longer.

"I'm leaving . . . And please don't follow me," she rasped. "I don't want to see you again."


	28. From Order into Chaos

A/N: Keep holding on, DSx

* * *

Severus could barely see the door as it closed. It took some time for his vision to clear—for him to see the room, more empty than it had ever been—to notice row upon row of books, once friends and confidants now standing in austere judgement of his pathetic existence.

They had been all he had—for so much of his life. They were his source of inspiration, they challenged him, he'd engaged them in, admittedly one-sided, conversations, questioned them, debated with them, and often dreamed about them.

It had been therapeutic. At the time, it had been essential. Without that outlet for his thoughts and emotions, he would have taken his own life— there wasn't a doubt in his mind.

But they had also betrayed him.

And he now had a sense that they'd taken from him the one tiny spark of light that had inexplicably flared in his life—a candle in the storm, a delicate bud that had managed to blossom from a desolate wasteland—his last chance at happiness.

Approaching slowly, he thought back to when he'd first entered these rooms. He'd arranged before all else, even before the arrival of his bed, for shelves to be constructed to house these books. He'd wanted to be surrounded by them, reassured by their presence. _And now?_ Now, they were little more than a miserable reminder of his inescapable past.

He had tried so hard to forge himself a new existence. He'd been only twenty-one—one of the youngest Professorial appointments in Hogwarts history. And despite being painfully shy, over time he'd managed to cultivate a persona of gruff impatience and gradually externalised the sarcastic wit that had always been part of his internal monologue, to the point that people had become fearful of him. He had been lonely but protected.

And he'd served. He'd atoned. He'd accepted the pain—so much physical and emotional pain—in an attempt to redress his past. But it was never enough. It couldn't be. It was impossible to wipe the slate clean when its bitter remnants were embedded within him, tattooed upon him and even carried in the hearts and minds of those few that mattered to him. Especially those to whom he no longer mattered.

Lunging at the shelves, he tore them down—book after book plummeted to the ground. He frantically clawed at them, raw shrieks of agony bursting from him as he plunged into the rows, sweeping armfuls across the room, hurling them against walls and furniture until there was nothing left to destroy.

And then he collapsed, holding his bleeding hands across his chest. It was the worst pain of all and no amount of healing was going to touch it.

Drawing ragged breaths, he leaned back against an empty shelf and closed his eyes, wondering at the absurdity of his own thoughts. All he could think of at the time she was rupturing with excruciating certainty in front of him, and all he could think now, was how he wished he had shown her.

Some of his books had indeed harboured dark thoughts—spells and enchantments to harm and punish—unfortunately most of which had been contained within the Defence Against the Dark Arts text that had been taken from him. But others were very different. Many were filled with discoveries, solutions and innovations—the types of concepts that Hermione would have been enthralled by. They could have discussed them, challenged them together. He wished he had trusted her enough to share them.

The enchantment underlying the Muggle Decree was the most deplorable he'd devised. He'd never been in a darker place. Voldemort had forced them all to take potions to ensure their servitude and compliance. They had been indoctrinated to hatred. He was never more alone than among the Death Eaters who would sooner kill him in an act of sycophantism to win the Dark Lord's favour, than befriend him. It was a perfect storm for such desperate thoughts.

But he had come out of that. He'd managed to covertly avoid the potions, recognise the flaws in Voldemort's vision, gain some wisdom in maturity and eventually return.

There was nearly an entire book dedicated to infant remedies. Lily had, to his surprise and pleasure, approached him after she'd given birth to a pale and sickly child in Harry, concerned about the current potions available and whether they'd been titrated appropriately for a child in his fragile state. He'd created a range especially for the boy. They'd worked. Harry had thrived. But he'd mistakenly assumed at that point that he could help her. And of course, when it came down to it, he had been perfectly impotent and hopelessly ineffective.

Lily had, as Hermione had described, bravely protected her son to the end. And since her death, he had tried his best to do the same.

It might not make any difference to Hermione to know this. _But what if it did?_ She might even manage to love him in return if she knew that there was more—more to him than his mistakes.

* * *

Hermione sobbed uncontrollably, her pillow quickly transforming into a soggy mess. The flood had started as soon as she'd left his rooms and hadn't abated, even upon the concerned questioning of her friends and housemates. There were no words to explain what had transpired and none to capture the depth of her pain.

"Hermione, tell me what's wrong." Lavender was leaning over her, hands pressed between her knees.

Hermione continued to bawl.

"Do you want me to get someone?"

More crying.

"If you don't tell me what's wrong, how can I help?" she huffed in exasperation.

"What's going on?" Parvati strode into the room, flinging her bag to the floor.

Lavender shook her head. "Who knows—she won't stop crying."

"Just give her some space then," Parvati told her.

"I'm only trying to help," Lavender snapped. "I need to find out what's wrong."

"No you don't. She'll tell you if she wants to, and only when she's ready." Parvati approached the opposite side of the bed.

"And since when were you appointed her official representative?" Lavender propped her hands on her hips.

"Since I have enough emotional intelligence to work out that she needs to be left alone."

"She's not alone if you're in here."

"By 'alone', I mean being available but not bombarding her with dumb fucking questions."

"Really?" Lavender smirked. "I thought by 'alone' you meant, getting rid of everyone else so you can try and get into her knickers again . . . Perverti."

In one step, Parvati was over the bed and had slammed Lavender against the wall, a hand around her throat.

"Get away from her you pathetic fucking bitch," Parvati growled. "You only wish there was someone desperate enough to get into yours—since they're clearly as barren as the space between your fucking ears."

Lavender glared at the dark-haired girl. "Fucking dyke," she spat before knocking her hand away and storming from the room.

Hermione vaguely heard the exchange but was too immersed in her own misery to respond.

She felt disgusted and horribly betrayed, used and manipulated—and deeply humiliated by the ugly reveal of their fraudulent relationship and the contrivance of her role in it.

It was all so sordid and despicable. She couldn't imagine what sick mindset would enable someone to think and act as he had. But at the same time, part of her did understand him. Minerva's description of his traumatic past, his own account of his weaknesses and failings, her knowledge of his conflicted life— she couldn't ignore them. But likewise, she couldn't ignore the fact that the noxious and contemptible scenario she'd been embroiled in was all his fault, whether he'd meant it to happen or not.

She sobbed as the warring arguments continued to rage inside her head and heart.

Despite it all, the overwhelming sense she felt in that moment was one of loss. She hadn't realised how much of herself she'd allowed him to infiltrate and occupy. He was already embedded in her existence, her expectations of herself in the present and the future. Without knowing it, he'd become part of her and he was now . . . gone. For so many reasons she had to let him go.

She cried harder as she recalled her excitement, only that morning, at the prospect of telling him that she loved him. Her pleasure had come from anticipating that look—that moment when the fragile threads of hope would emerge from the depths of his black eyes as he allowed himself to open up to her. She'd seen it before. And she'd witnessed it earlier, when she'd left him standing broken in his room . . . when he'd told her he loved her.

She clutched her knees into her chest. _Gods . . . it hurt so much!_

He'd betrayed her, and yet she believed him when he said he loved her. And the most difficult part was that, in spite of everything, she hadn't stopped loving him. He didn't deserve to be alone—it had been a despicable thing to say but she'd been hurting too much to hold back. Loneliness was what had driven him to the hateful depths of despair from which the enchantment had emerged. He could never be allowed to go back again.

He'd shown that, despite his past, he was capable of love. She thought back to the way he'd cared for her in his rooms—his tender attentiveness, the disarming hitch of his smile. It crushed her heart. He deserved to have love in return. But the enchantment had so tainted everything between them that it could never be her. She couldn't be the one to say those words, despite their threat to fall unbidden from her lips, even in the midst of her deepest despair.

She couldn't fulfil the enchantment with him anymore—not with the knowledge of its abominable origins and for whom it was intended. And if she could no longer do it, someone else would have to. The thought of him with another woman tore another ragged hole in her heart. He was hers. And she was his . . . wasn't that what she'd told him?—as she lay in his arms, looking into those beautiful eyes, brimming with unshed tears.

 _No. It couldn't happen_. The only way they would both be free of it—and that everyone would be safe from the effects of the enchantment, was if it was destroyed once and for all. If Voldemort had created the enchantment using his own blood, its elimination would be sure to severely weaken him, giving Harry the reprieve he deserved, and an opportunity at revenge for everything that had been taken from him. Then there were the women—muggle women—mothers, grandmothers, as well as their children—that could be spared from the deplorable attacks of the Death Eaters. And there was this . . . this intolerable pain . . . She knew it wasn't something that was going to simply resolve, and attempting to get on with her life as though nothing had happened was, of course, a sheer impossibility.

She was the only one who could do it. And she would do it. When she'd heard stories about the sacrifices witches and wizards had made throughout the two Wizarding Wars, and witnessed the bravery of those around her during her time at Hogwarts, she had always asked herself if she would be prepared to do the same. And her answer had always been yes. She wasn't a martyr but she was a proud Gryffindor. And whilst it made her immeasurably sad to reflect upon what she would miss, she was now resolved that it was the right decision.

She knew exactly the person to make it happen. Someone who had been driven to reckless desperation by the Decree—who was obviously suffering under Voldemort's brutality and the relentless and very real threat of his own elimination.

"Vati?" She blinked through her foggy despair at the girl who was leaning against the wall nearby, watching her with concern.

"What do you need?"

Hermione sniffed loudly. "Parchment . . . and a quill. I need to write a letter."


	29. Last Orders

A/N: I'm obliged to provide you with a death warning for this chapter. DSx

I'd like to thank Ali for the chapter title.

* * *

"Bang! Bang!"

Severus' hand slid off the bed, normally she would be right—

Jerking up, he looked around blearily, halting on the empty spot beside him. And the agonising evisceration started anew. He'd dreamed of her. She'd been lying against him, reading, twining his hair around her fingers. And he'd been humming, his chest vibrating against her back. He'd remembered feeling relief, the press of her body soothing the ache, dulling the pain roiling deep inside—

"Bang! Bang! . . . Bang!"

Severus groaned as he rolled out of bed, wandlessly summoning his dressing gown as he stumbled into the lounge room. He stopped. Books. Everywhere. A nearly empty bottle of whisky discarded in the middle. _Fuck._

Clambering over the shifting piles, he unlocked the door with a flick and yanked it open.

"About fucking time." Lucius Malfoy pushed past, kicking books out of his way. "Now where's Draco?"

"What?"

"Draco—my son? You remember him? A member of the fucking house you're supposed to head?" Malfoy growled.

Clearly he hadn't gotten over their last encounter.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Severus muttered, cinching the tie around his gown.

"He's missing." Lucius pushed the word through gritted teeth. "Otherwise I wouldn't fucking be here—talking to the least trustworthy bastard I've ever had the displeasure of conversing with."

"Missing?"

"Yes. Unable to be located. Missing. What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Severus huffed impatiently. "Elucidate. From where is he missing? What are the circumstances surrounding his disappearance?" He rolled his hand as though encouraging the bleeding obvious.

Malfoy sighed, combing his fingers distractedly through his hair. "He turned up last night, looking like complete—" His jaw tightened. "It seems he's not been sleeping well. He was agitated about something—shouted at his mother. I told him not to return to Hogwarts—to sleep at the Manor instead. Then this morning I rose to check on him and he was gone. His bed hadn't been slept in."

"Perhaps he changed his mind—returned anyway," Severus suggested.

"Perhaps . . . but he took the fucking dagger with him." Lucius' silver eyes met his.

Suddenly Severus couldn't breathe.

"So . . . now you know why I need to find him." Lucius leaned toward him, eyes downcast. "If the Dark Lord discovers it missing . . . after he entrusted it to—" He swallowed, unable to continue.

"I'll find him," Severus murmured.

"What?"

But Severus was gone, slipping over the books back to his bedroom. Moments later he emerged, fully dressed.

"Where is he?" Malfoy demanded.

"No idea."

"Where are you going?" Lucius grabbed his arm.

"If that dagger doesn't return. Draco's dead."

"Don't you think I know that?" Malfoy hissed.

"Let me find him."

Malfoy's grip tightened. He was clearly conflicted. But then he finally released him with a reluctant grimace.

"He's not well," he called after Severus, his voice breaking.

 _Hermione_. Severus could feel the breath rasping through his constricted throat. The dread that had started in the pit of his stomach was spreading, rapidly consuming him, threatening to drag him under like quicksand.

 _She wouldn't_. _She wouldn't. She wouldn't._

 _It would be . . . unthinkable._

 _Only someone utterly . . . someone with a ridiculously . . . someone so fucking . . . so totally . . . totally . . . her . . . Hermione . . . only she would do such a thing._

"No." A wretched moan escaped him as he started to run, startled students recoiling as their normally impeccably composed Professor flew past.

Minutes later he arrived at Gryffindor Tower, gasping for breath. The common room door suddenly opened. _Potter_.

"Where is she?"

Harry looked at him in surprise. "Who?"

"Herm . . . uh . . . Miss . . . Granger," he panted. ". . . Where is she?"

Harry crossed his arms. "How should I know?"

"I need to see her."

"Do you have another 'appointment'?" Harry sneered.

Severus shook his head. "No . . . I just . . ." He swallowed with difficulty. "Please . . . Harry . . ."

Harry's eyes widened. He'd never seen Snape like this. Pleading. And he'd never called him 'Harry' before.

"Why?"

"It's . . . it's . . . important."

He looked like he was about to cry.

Sighing, Harry shook his head. "She left."

"When?"

"Not long ago."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"No, she . . . she didn't say anything, she just . . ."

Severus nodded at him to continue.

"She just hugged me. A really . . . really big hug. And left."

Severus' eyes fixed on Harry's. "Thank you," he murmured before turning and striding back the way he'd come.

His gaze immediately went to the Tower windows. As he passed each, he caught a glimpse of the Hogwarts grounds. Then he stopped. There. It was her—hurrying past Hagrid's hut. She was heading for the Forbidden forest.

* * *

His lungs were on fire. He'd taken every short cut, blasted every door open, knocked every unsuspecting student, and even a handful of teachers, out of his way but it had still taken some time to arrive at the spot that he'd last seen her. He hadn't had time to deduce which direction she'd taken but he had a sinking sense as he scanned the forbidding woodland that he already knew.

Racing between the trees, he headed for the ancient oak grove. Within it was a stone altar. It had been used for various ceremonies in the past. Now it was moss-covered and served little purpose—at least he desperately hoped that was still the case.

Using the tree trunks to steady himself, he slithered along the tracks, heavy with mud from the overnight rain.

Footprints. Slight. Narrow. Hers.

"Hermione!" he cried.

No response.

 _He couldn't be too late. Not again_.

"Hermione! I'm . . . I'm coming," he sobbed, cursing the mud that was suctioning onto his boots, slowing him down.

Casting spell after spell, he cleared the way as best he could.

Finally he saw it. The grove—shrouded in deep shadow. Someone had cast a concealment spell making it extremely difficult to see.

Approaching, he finally glimpsed movement. A metallic glint. Suddenly the air was split by a scream, sharp but cut short.

He was too late.

Staggering on leaden legs, he lurched between stumps and rocks.

"No!" His strangled cry grated against the silence.

Draco looked up, mouth open, wild-eyed.

"What have you done?"

The blond backed away as he approached. A figure was lying on the stone slab, the ornate dagger still embedded in her abdomen.

He threw himself onto his knees, pressing a hand to the wound. "I'm here, Hermione," he gasped. "I'm right . . . here."

Only Hermione's eyes moved, flickering and dull as she tried to focus on his face.

Her blood was blooming rapidly—spreading like spilt ink. Scarlet. So stark against the white of her gown.

He began frantically casting one of his own healing spells—the words running together in his haste to reverse what was already a devastating amount of damage.

"I'm sorry, Severus," she gasped, her forehead furrowing sadly. "It was . . . just . . . too much."

She attempted to lift a hand to him but it fell back to the cold stone.

Then he felt it. The jolt deep inside. A surge followed by a static throb, dwindling to depletion. The enchantment . . . was gone.

And so was she.

Lips falling apart with shock, he looked up to see Draco who had collapsed against a tree, arms wrapped around his stomach.

"Why . . .?" Severus cried, stumbling to his feet. "Why?!" he screamed again, before throwing himself at the boy.

"It wasn't just for me!" Draco tried to protect himself. "I did it for all of us!"

Severus shook him like a rag doll before throwing him to the ground, pulling out his wand and stabbing it into the boy's side.

"I had to," Draco sobbed. "I didn't have a choice. He would have eventually killed us all."

Severus' vision blurred as he struggled to breathe. Hermione was right. _It was too much_. Suddenly his wand arm went limp. He couldn't do it anymore. Draco took the opportunity to crawl away before lurching to his feet and stumbling into the forest.

Choking on his grief, Severus gazed into the patchwork of bare tree branches overhead. His body started convulsing uncontrollably, captured by a series of violent shudders that took him several moments to control. Then, when the quaking had finally eased and he was ready to return to the altar, he removed his coat slowly, each movement imbued with sombre reverence, a painful acknowledgement of what she'd done.

Placing his coat on the ground beside her, he knelt, carefully lifting her body from the slab before lowering her down and gently brushing a lock of hair from her face. It was the one that always chose to sit right there, whether she was chewing her lip, puzzling out a formula, smiling at him mysteriously over her cup of tea, or gazing into his eyes, touching his soul when they were making love.

Despite the blue that had seeped into her pale lips, they held a residual warmth as he ran his thumb across them. Then he simply lay beside her, shoulder against the damp, mossy ground.

Grasping one of her small hands between his, he uncurled her fingers, placing her palm against his cheek as he closed his eyes.

He willed time to stop—for that moment to stretch on . . . without end. For both to remain as they were, the remnants of a life once lived still within her, the bitter cold of death seeping into him. Both transitioning from this forsaken world . . . together.

He didn't know how long he lay there, but as some point he was jolted awake by the pain in his frozen joints.

Time hadn't stopped. He could feel it. The dagger's vampiric properties had taken their toll. Her hand was shrivelled, the skin against his face as dry as parchment.

He didn't want to open his eyes—to witness what she had become. To behold the hollowed out shell of her beautiful face.

Heart sinking to an unparalleled low, he moaned softly before cracking open his eyes.

Suddenly he recoiled, dropping the withered hand with a strangled gasp.

 _Dumbledore?!_


	30. Ordering in Parts

A/N: Well, I didn't realise that WTF could be expressed in so many different ways! The commentary has been wonderful. Thank you so much! DSxx

* * *

"So you managed to bring me back safely then?"

Severus' head snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice. He sighed when he realised where it had come from—the portrait of Dumbledore . . . now hanging behind his desk.

"Just put me down there." Dumbledore indicated to the spot in front of him. "I had the presence of mind to hang myself up here before I left," he explained. "What would you call that? When one speaks in the present of the actions of oneself prior to their own death . . . the fourth person, the fifth?"

Severus didn't respond. Instead he gently lowered Dumbledore's body onto the desk before propping his hands on either side of his mentor's pale, bearded face. He still couldn't quite fathom what had happened.

"It's not a good look is it?"

Severus looked up, bemused.

"Death." Dumbledore leaned forward in the painting, tilting his head to appraise himself. "Still, it was the right thing to do, don't you think?"

"Headmast—" Severus cleared his throat. "Headmaster, I'm afraid I'm at a loss." He shook his head despondently.

"Of course you are. Why don't you make yourself comfortable?" Dumbledore waved his arm at his high-backed chair, encouraging Severus to sit. "I have a bottle of whisky in my cupboard if you—"

Severus raised a hand. "No . . . thank you."

The skinful he'd consumed the night before, together with the events of the morning had left him feeling distinctly nauseous.

"I presume you found the note in my pocket?"

Severus nodded.

"And I see you recovered the invisibility cloak." He gestured to the silvery fabric that had slithered to the floor as Severus had entered the office.

"Yes." Severus sank into the chair, suddenly exhausted.

"I suppose you want to know how this all transpired?"

"Actually, I . . ."

"She's fine."

Severus sagged with relief, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"Asleep . . . Being cared for most capably by Miss Patil."

Severus propped his head on his hand, the energy continuing to drain from him like grains of sand trickling through an hourglass.

"I understand that you would like to see Miss Granger—possibly even more than your desire to converse with a painting whilst sitting beside a corpse . . . but there are a few items that we need to discuss."

Severus' eyebrows hitched up in acknowledgement. "Of course."

"She came to see me yesterday evening."

His heart instantly squeezed.

"Quite upset . . . almost inconsolable as it turns out."

"We—"

Dumbledore raised his palm. "No need to explain. She was here for nearly three hours in the end. Needless to say she was rather thorough and quite . . . candid."

Severus' gaze dropped to the floor.

"It seems your past is unwilling to let you go. And . . . fortunately . . . Miss Granger happens to feel the same way."

Severus blinked. It took him a moment to process Dumbledore's words.

"Are you suggesting—?"

"Well not initially," Dumbledore admitted. "I suspect if you'd been anywhere close by when she'd first arrived, you may have found yourself divested of a certain part of your anatomy. However . . . throughout the course of our discussion, she posed a number of questions which I chose to answer with equal candour." The old Wizard's blue-eyed gaze intensified. "Severus, I'm afraid that I broke my vow to you . . . I told Miss Granger your story. All of it. And I'm not sorry."

Severus' mouth opened, but no words came out.

"She cried . . . she said she'd never imagined your life to be so tragic . . . she cried for what you'd had to endure. We both did."

Severus swallowed down the lump of sorrow that seemed to have been with him permanently over the past day.

"And she changed her mind. She revealed that she'd intended to present herself as the sacrifice to break the enchantment . . . and that she'd already owled Draco to request that he meet her. But . . . she also admitted that she was in love with you."

Severus inhaled suddenly, doing his best to hold himself together.

Dumbledore regarded him soberly. "As I said . . . she was very candid."

He gave the tormented younger wizard a few moments of reprieve.

"In the end, she remained conflicted . . . she no longer wished to follow through with her plans . . . but she was still struggling to see a way forward with the enchantment hanging over you both. It was clear that she was still very much in love with you and so . . . I made a decision . . . And here is the outcome." He gestured to his ash-grey body, the dagger still embedded to the hilt.

Severus shook his head. "Was there nothing else that could have been done?"

"Of course there was." Dumbledore's voice rose. "But nothing that would have been nearly as effective."

He dragged a hand over his beard. "I must admit that I was a little concerned about the Polyjuice. But, knowing the nature of the enchantment and its intimate invasion of the body, I suspected that the transformation would be sufficient to satisfy the dagger's identification requirements. I suppose it was quite fortunate that I was correct in the end . . . otherwise that could have been a bit of a waste."

He regarded his body contemplatively for a long moment before sighing.

"And then we have the fact that I was rapidly succumbing to the fruits of my own foolishness." He looked sadly at the blackened claw curled against the side of his corpse.

"I would have continued to treat you," Severus replied earnestly.

"Still . . . it was inevitable." Dumbledore's painted hand dropped resignedly onto the arm of the chair in which he sat. "The curse was consuming me—a little more each day. I didn't wish to be completely eroded by it as I'd indicated from the beginning. And asking another to assist my exit in the final stages would have been . . . unconscionable."

Severus averted his gaze. He'd sensed that it was something he might have been asked to do. Perhaps something he should have volunteered for—the final obligation to his close friend and mentor. But he was now unsure of how he would have responded if asked. In recent months he seemed to have inherited a particularly self-righteous, bushy-haired conscience that was muddying the normal clarity of his decision-making. He sighed. It served no real purpose to ruminate on such thoughts anyway . . . Dumbledore was dead.

"And, of course," Dumbledore continued, "we can't underestimate the impact of destroying the enchantment on Voldemort's vitality. He was foolish enough to use his own blood to create it—which may have assured its potency but at the same time left him vulnerable. And to accept Lucius' assurances that it was unbreakable was equally unwise. You were always so steadfast under their questioning—under torture, Severus. Clearly they suspected nothing."

Severus' face remained grim. "It appears not. But I doubt the Dark Lord will be as complimentary of my efforts when he discovers that the enchantment has been undone—and at the hand of Draco Malfoy no less."

"Perhaps." Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement. "Or perhaps not. As I see it, Draco can either admit to knowingly breaking the enchantment by attempting to sacrifice Hermione Granger or unknowingly breaking the enchantment by killing Albus Dumbledore . . . perchance in his sleep . . . to win the Dark Lord's favour. I'm quite confident of the version he will choose."

Severus was beginning to see that the great wizard had given this decision far more consideration than he'd originally insinuated.

"He is to be expelled, then? The Azkaban guards called in?"

"No. His role in my death will stay between ourselves and Professor McGonagall. It was not done purposefully."

"And yet he'd sought to kill another student. Is that to be disregarded too?" Severus' voice rose.

"Severus." Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "If you had seen the boy you would understand. He was utterly distraught. He kept retreating—sobbing that he could not go through with it. He apologised profusely for everything he had ever done to Miss Granger—some of which I was unaware of. In the end I had to force his hand."

Severus' head was buried again in his own hands. He was having trouble visualising the moment of her death; despite now knowing the truth. He also felt extremely guilty. The relief at realising that it wasn't her was eating into him—especially considering that it superseded his sense of loss for the person he was supposed to be closest to in the world. _Or had she taken that place in his heart too?_

"Perhaps you can identify with him, Severus? A young man, taught to hate, one also living with regret?"

Severus continued to stare at the floor.

"You will invite Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy to view my body in order that they may inform the Dark Lord. Despite the enchantment's demise, which the Dark Lord will assume was somehow linked to myself, I'm confident that Draco will be embraced and trusted. He'll be safe."

"And myself? Do you expect the same?" Severus finally returned his gaze to the painting.

"No—you're no longer safe. Therefore, I believe it is time." Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair. "You are not to return to the fold of the Dark Lord."

"But how will we obtain the information that we require? Knowledge of his plans is crucial to ensure our ongoing protection."

"Draco's loyalty to Vodemort has been completely eroded. Keep your door open to him. Trust him. And he will come. But never ask of him what I asked of you. It must be his own choice, not a condition—a manipulation that I regretted every single day."

Severus closed his eyes.

"Before I died, I told you that it was too much. I was referring to myself. I'd asked too much of you. And that was the foremost reason for doing what I did. You deserve to be free Severus—of the Order's expectations, of my demands, of the ghosts from your past. "

A single tear trickled down Severus' cheek.

"You deserve to be happy. And I happen to know that a certain someone wishes the same for you. In fact, she has expressed a hope for happiness for you both . . . together."

Severus wiped a hand across his face.

"This is all getting rather sombre and I didn't mean it to be." Dumbledore sat back in his seat. "Despite being dead, I'm actually feeling rather invigorated. I should tell you about how you nearly caught me stealing your ingredients for the Polyjuice potion. It was a very close call. You thought I was a student and came storming down the corridor after me. I only just managed to get away." Dumbledore chuckled.

Severus' lips curled into a faint smile. "And you managed to perform the brew yourself too?"

"Now you must recall that I did actually teach you some of what you know. You rapidly surpassed me, of course, but I still have a few brewing tricks up my sleeve."

"Which begs the question . . . how long have you been preparing for this?" Severus frowned.

"For this?" Dumbledore's gaze strayed upwards. "Oh, a few months now. I recovered one of Miss Granger's hairs from her chair after that first meeting. I had a feeling, even at that time, that I may need to step in at some stage. In fact, I originally considered I may need to consume the Polyjuice to attend the Death Eater gathering."

"Please tell me you didn't?" Severus hand was over his face.

"Of course not."

Severus released a long sigh of relief.

"But I was there."

"What?!"

"Do you really think I would send Miss Granger along to something like that alone?"

"But . . . where were you?"

"Oh . . . around."

"Around? Not—"

Dumbledore waved his hand dismissively. "It wasn't anything I hadn't already seen before. I've lived a very long life, you know."

"Yes, but . . . you might have made it known that you were there."

"How?" Dumbledore rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Did you want me to tap you on the shoulder and whisper, 'Keep it up Severus old chap, nearly there!'?"

"Of course not, but—!"

"I just made sure that there was a plan. It turned out that Miss Granger had, of course, come up with something brilliant and I left as soon as it seemed you were both safe."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, quite unable to believe that the events of the morning could get any more bizarre.

"And in regards to your question about whether I would have substituted myself in her place for you. The answer is 'no.' You may be a handsome man, Severus, but there are only certain sacrifices that I'm willing to make."

Severus chuckled. And Dumbledore joined him. Soon they were both roaring with laughter. It went on for several minutes, both slumped helplessly in their seats. And even after that, it took some time for them to compose themselves.

Dumbledore sighed contentedly as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Bloody hell I needed that."

"As did I." Severus rubbed his chin appreciatively.

Sitting up straight in his chair, Dumbledore suddenly fixed his gaze upon the younger wizard. "I want you to succeed me—as Headmaster."

Severus' face turned serious. "But what about Professor McGonagall?"

"She agrees. We both believe that you are most suited to take Hogwarts forward in this difficult time. Minerva is well aware of the actions I have taken today. Of course she tried to dissuade me but I was adamant that this was the right course to take. She is completely behind you and will ensure that the entire staff are united in their support. She also agrees that you should nominate Miss Granger as the representative for the student body—to bring the houses together. They are a formidable bunch and I am confident that, as one, you will succeed in bringing down the Dark Lord. Will you accept the position?"

Severus was quite dumbfounded. "Of course, Albus . . . It would be an honour."

"And finally . . . I think it's about time you revoked the Dark Mark."

Severus pulled up his sleeve, tracing his thumb over the raised lines.

"Do you recall the exit ritual?"

"Yes."

"Very good. It will ensure that you are removed from Voldemort's services once and for all. And since he also imbued this enchantment with his own blood, destroying it will further diminish him. When his power over the Death Eaters is removed, his numbers will further dwindle, and you will be perfectly positioned to take the steps required to destroy him."

Severus considered the Mark. It was another of his deep regrets, something else he wished he'd never conceived, but perhaps there was to be something positive to come from it also.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I very much doubt that when Voldemort took possession of a set of books stolen from Hogwarts' most brilliant student, he realised how badly it would come back to bite him—worse than a nasty nip from that vile serpent of his I suspect."

Severus regarded him with a knowing smirk. "Most brilliant student?"

"Well, now, I could never tell you that. I didn't want to risk inflating your ego."

Severus snorted.

"And you should probably make the most of the title as I doubt you'll be holding it much longer. Miss Granger is set to break all records if her past performance is anything to go by."

Severus nodded. "No doubt."

An amiable silence settled over them.

"Oh, go on then." Dumbledore waved towards the door. "I know you've just been humouring an old man—allowing him time to bumble through his final wishes. You'll have to reverse the sleeping spell I put on her," he called after Severus who was already at the door. "And not that you're likely to give me a second thought but Minerva should be by soon. We're going to work out how best to alert the rest of the school to my untimely demise. No doubt—"

But the rest of his words were lost as Severus closed the door and started striding quickly toward Gryffindor Tower.


	31. Restoring Order

A/N: So I figure I have two chapters to go after this one (including the epilogue). However, I've left a sprinkle of foregrounding for an additional potential 'Vati threesome' chapter to reward her for her efforts throughout. Let me know if you're keen. If there's enough interest I'll have a go at my first M/F/F. If there's not, I'll finish as originally intended. If there is a 'Vati reward' chapter, remember you don't have to read it if it's not your thing. I'll leave it out of the end-of-story exam just in case ;) DSx

* * *

Severus managed to collar a second year student as they were leaving the Gryffindor common room. They rapidly retreated, allowing him through. Striding around the inhabitants, he ignored their gaping mouths before climbing the stairs to her room. His chest instantly tightened as he raised his hand. _How would she receive him? And how would she take the news of Dumbledore's death?_

He knocked.

After a moment the door was answered.

"Miss Patil." Severus nodded.

"Professor Snape."

Expecting her to step back, he advanced a pace, only to find her blocking his way, arms crossed, looking up at him accusingly.

He retreated.

"You really hurt her." She spoke quietly but firmly.

He looked over her shoulder at Hermione's sleeping form and sighed resignedly.

"Yes."

"You won't do it again, will you?"

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. And the way the fingers of her wand hand flexed against her bicep suggested that she fancied her chances of seeing to it, if he did happen to transgress. He was both taken aback and relieved—that Hermione had found a female friend who was clearly looking out for her. Frankly, he didn't have a lot of confidence in her male companions.

He gave a small contrite shake of his head.

"You won't be disturbed then," she told him as she pushed past, her dark eyes reinforcing her earlier warning. "Professor Dumbledore left a letter on her desk," she added.

"Thank you, Miss Patil."

He stepped through, closing the door quietly.

Severus made his way over to Hermione's bed and sat beside her. She looked so peaceful—and alive, the soft pink hues of her skin contrasting with the deathly pallor that still occupied the image in his mind's eye. He briefly considered lying down—spending a quiet moment with her before she woke—but it was too close to what had happened in the forest and she may not want him that intimate with her, even if she was unaware of it.

Hovering his fingertips over her eyelids, he reversed the sleeping incantation. He only realised that he was holding his breath when her eyes fluttered open . . . and her lips curled into a faint smile.

"Severus?"

Then she was in his arms. He closed his eyes as she crawled onto his lap, wrapping herself around him. And as she clung to him, he simply held her, the feeling of her body pressed against his chest, an instant balm. He inhaled her on each breath—her scent, her warmth, her presence—and she released a little upon each exhalation, what felt like relief, sighing against him.

They remained like that, in wordless union, for a long time. That endless moment he'd wished for in the forest, imbued with wretched hopelessness, was replaced by this one—soothing and hope-filled. This one he would remember.

Finally she pulled back and looked at him—into him.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

She gazed at him, reading his face.

"Tell me."

Raising a hand toward the roll of parchment on her desk, he summoned it, placing it in her hands. She stared at Dumbledore's seal, designed to ensure that only she could open the letter.

Quickly breaching the seal and unfurling it, she read, her face crumpling with pain.

"He's gone?"

Severus nodded gravely, rubbing a hand down her back.

"And the enchantment?"

He nodded again.

Her hand went over her mouth as she choked back the tears.

"He did it for . . . us . . . didn't he?"

Severus sighed deeply. "Yes. Amongst other things."

"And I was so angry with him." Hermione shook her head despondently. "I was always convinced that he only cared about the Order—that it dictated everything he did."

Severus continued to rub her shoulder as she curled into him.

"His was an extraordinarily difficult role. I didn't always understand his motives, myself," he admitted. "But it's clear that he cared immensely about all of us."

She cried silent tears, shuddering against him. He stroked her hair.

"I spoke to him . . . for hours." Her voice was muffled against his chest.

"I'm aware. I spoke to his portrait."

She was quiet.

"Did he tell you how angry I was with you? How I wanted to hex your—"

"Yes," he interrupted.

More silence.

"Did he tell you anything else?"

Severus didn't respond.

But when she looked up into his face she knew the answer.

Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she reached up and curled her fingers around the nape of his neck, pulling him to her before kissing him gently on the lips.

"I love you," she murmured, a faint vibration against his mouth making his heart surge. "But I haven't forgiven you yet . . . not completely."

"Tell me what I need to do," he whispered.

"Don't worry . . . I intend to."

She kissed him again, this time with greater urgency, opening her mouth to him. He responded with equal fervour, dipping into her warmth with his tongue, tasting her, relishing all that he thought he'd lost.

Breathing heavily, she finally broke away. "That's one thing. I'm going to be calling the shots on when we're . . . intimate."

"Of course."

She looked slightly disappointed, as though she'd been expecting to have to justify herself.

"Well . . . that's good," she stated firmly, before her eyes roved over his face and she suddenly lunged at him, pulling him down onto the bed before rolling on top of him. Placing one palm on each of his cheeks, thumbs curled under his mouth, she kissed him deeply—gratuitously sucking his lips and tongue as though enjoying a ripe mango. He groaned, if this was her 'calling the shots' he was more than willing to concede.

"I'd like to go to your rooms now," she informed him after their extensive and prolonged feasting.

He smirked. "We might need to glamour those." He ran his thumb along her lips which were flushed and swollen from their passionate exchange.

"I believe there are other parts in more serious need of camouflage." She looked pointedly at the crotch of his trousers which was doing an impressive impression of the 'big top'.

He snorted before casting a wandless incantation that instantly covered it.

"But then we have the small problem of us leaving together after spending this entire time alone in my room."

"The Headmaster can do as he wishes with the representative of the student body."

She frowned at him.

"Headmaster?"

He nodded.

"And I'm the . . ."

"You are the student . . . body . . .," he gradually slid his hands down her torso, trailing his thumbs over her breasts, ". . . representative."

"I imagine that will require frequent . . . liaisons?" She leaned over him.

"Yes. We'll need to discuss certain . . . manoeuvres." His voice was a deliciously low rumble. "Difficult positions will need to be . . . filled . . . and no doubt there'll be some . . . interconnection required."

"Do you really think I'm up to it?" She dipped down to lick him.

"I think it'll be right up . . . your . . . alley." He licked her back.

"Let's go," she murmured breathlessly.

* * *

"What in Merlin's name happened here?!" Hermione stared agape at the haphazard piles of books covering his lounge room floor.

"I was . . . rearranging."

She regarded him suspiciously. "Looks more like a temper tantrum to me."

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Well, nothing happens until they're all back in their places."

Severus instantly withdrew his wand and began casting.

She grabbed the end of it. "By hand . . . as that seems to be the manner in which this mess was created."

He sighed before slipping his wand back into his pocket.

"And because I hate to see them in such a state . . . I'll help."

They both set about picking up books and placing them back onto the shelves. Severus grabbed half a dozen at a time, sliding them efficiently into place whilst Hermione picked her way through, running her fingers over them before picking up one, flicking through it, smoothing out pages with her fingers and finally, reluctantly, letting it go.

Severus had completed one entire wall of books when he turned to see Hermione leaning against the shelf, reading.

"I assumed by 'help' you actually meant placing the books on the shelves, rather than reading them."

"Shhh." She raised a hand to him, continuing to read.

Huffing, he bent down to collect another armful.

"Who's the Half-Blood Prince?"

He halted before suddenly straightening. "It was . . . just . . . a name."

"For whom? You?"

He shook his head dismissively. "It was a simple play on words . . . from my youth."

"The Half-Blood Prince," she murmured. "I rather like that."

His gaze flickered to hers before he resumed collecting books.

"Do you mind if I use it?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"What about HBP?"

"No."

He placed another armful of books on the shelves.

"No one will know that it stands for . . ." Her eyes strayed downward. "Headmaster Bulgy-Pants."

His gaze followed hers to his cock which was still semi-erect.

Suddenly his mouth hitched up in a smirk that she found all too sexy. "Well, you do happen to be in my general vicinity."

Her own lips curled into a mischievous smile before she slid the book onto the shelf. "And is that the effect that I have upon you . . . HBP?"

He looked her directly in the eye. "Indeed."

Approaching him with slow, sultry steps, Hermione bit her bottom lip in the way she knew he couldn't resist. When she reached him she rubbed her belly against his groin, and he groaned.

"Show me what I do to you," she murmured, reaching down to finger his iron girth. "Right . . . here."

"But . . . the books."

"Fuck the books." She pulled him down onto the pile with her.

Kissing her hungrily, he cast wandless, wordless spells, tugging the clothes from both of their bodies like some sort of illusionist, allowing each to flutter to the ground around them until they were naked. She immediately opened her legs, allowing him to nestle between.

"I love having you inside me," she whimpered against his cheek as he grasped his cock and pressed it against her entrance.

"Not as much as I love being inside you," he gasped, already on the verge of losing himself within her.

In one sweet thrust he was fully ensheathed, causing her to arch against her bed of books with a throaty moan. Delving both hands into his hair, she clung on, holding him to her as she accepted each deep, impactful stroke with a flex of her pelvis.

She could hardly believe that she'd gone from a virgin to this in a few short months—moving fluidly with a man inside her, adoring and encouraging every incursion, the natural rhythm of her core clutching and releasing his solid member, and feeling the heady sense of her whole body gathering for the ultimate release . . . with him.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed as his hands reached down and grasped her buttocks, pulling her into him as he plunged.

"I'm here, Severus." She closed her eyes against the hot, stinging tears as she held him even tighter. "You don't deserve to be alone . . . you never did."

He shuddered in her embrace and she found herself loving him even more as her mounting affection fused with an overwhelming physical response to his presence within her.

"You're mine, Severus," she moaned as he took her over the edge.

"Always," he whispered against her cheek.

Then he came, and this time it was just the two of them, free from the enchantment, free from obligation, just their essences ebbing and flowing in long, heaving waves that gradually diminished, leaving them clinging and damp, the air redolent with their love-making and the contented soughing of their breaths combined.


	32. Completing Orders

A/N: Thank you so much for your comments/feedback. I've decided that I'll definitely go with the Vati threesome but as a spin-off oneshot rather than as part of this fic to give it the time it deserves, and to allow these two a more complete finale. Your generous input has been instrumental in crafting this fic so please know how much I appreciate it. Epilogue to follow, DSx

* * *

"Professor Dumbledore would be truly humbled by the profoundly heartfelt show of affection and gratitude from you, the students and staff, of Hogwarts. In fact, he has asked me to return immediately after this assembly to tell him all about it." Professor McGonagall smiled warmly at the sea of faces. "I wouldn't have considered it possible for him to be more demanding as a portrait than he was in real life." There was a ripple of laughter through the Great Hall. "But he assures me that he has mellowed and is always available for a few words of guidance, or if you simply wish to drop by for a chat."

There were further blown noses and respectful nods from around the room.

"So without further ado, I would like to welcome the man who has been appointed to succeed Professor Dumbledore, your new Hogwarts' Headmaster, Professor Severus Snape."

There was a generous round of applause, even from Ron and Harry, whom Hermione was watching closely from her position seated on the stage.

"Thank you Professor McGonagall." Severus stood, his voice requiring no magical enhancement. He regarded the entire hall of expectant, sceptical, sad and intrigued faces for a long, silent moment. "How does one follow the legacy of arguably the greatest wizard to ever live? A man whom we have had the immeasurable fortune of calling Headmaster at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for over thirty years. He was a generous mentor and close friend, and I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that we will miss him terribly." His words rang out over the hushed group. "I only hope to be able to lead Hogwarts with the same vision, compassion and wisdom as he. And I have no doubt that he will make it known in no uncertain terms if I do not."

There was a ruffle of laughter.

"We live and learn in difficult times. There are forces that would wish to disrupt our pursuit of quality education, magical excellence and, of course, Quidditch supremacy."

A smattering of applause broke out around the hall.

"However, most of all they would seek to disrupt our unity—our support for one another, our recognition of the uniqueness of our individual Houses but our understanding that Hogwarts identity is enmeshed in the complement of what these Houses offer. We are one School with a single objective—to respect, assist and protect every single individual within these walls."

He paused, his eyes resting upon the faces of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in turn.

"As much as this can be achieved through peaceable means, it will. However, there may be a requirement in the future for us to use the formidable capabilities of the students and staff of Hogwarts to defend our school values. For that reason, Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and I have nominated a representative of the student body who will be your liaison for matters relating to the strategic enhancement of certain magical proficiencies within the School. This person was chosen on academic merit and for her consistent commitment to underwriting the school values. I'd like you to join me in congratulating Miss Hermione Granger."

He turned and gestured to her, and she flushed, wondering how many people actually believed that was the only rationale for her appointment. Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore perhaps based theirs upon such virtues, but Severus had sidled up and delivered a very low murmur in her ear only minutes before, informing her that 'Headmaster Bulgy-Pants' was very much looking forward to an intimate association with the 'Student Body'. . . as soon as possible.

Clearing her throat as the applause died down, Hermione cast a wandless amplifying charm.

"Thank you all very much. I can't express how surprised and honoured I was to be asked to undertake this role. Of course, the responsibility of this position is really to serve and represent all of you, so please don't hesitate to owl me if there is anything in particular that you wish to discuss."

She saw Ron mutter something to Harry. No doubt a dig about 'getting a word in edgewise.'

"As Professor Snape mentioned, there is also to be a more strategic direction for reinforcing our skills in magical defence. To this end, I have nominated Parvati Patil to work closely with me in ensuring that the dual functions of this role are met."

There was another round of applause, mainly from fellow Gryffindors, while Parvati delivered an assured nod to Hermione on stage.

"Finally, I'd like to say that I have the utmost confidence that our new Headmaster, Professor Snape, will employ his usual level of consideration and diligence to the role, preparing Hogwarts to face the challenges of a new Millennium. And I very much look forward to working closely with him into the future. Thank you."

She hurried to take her seat before anyone noticed the glow that had ignited her cheeks. It had to be said—there were already rumours flying about so if was out in the open, she would now feel more justified in providing that relationship as an explanation.

Professor McGonagall closed the assembly with a few final words about maintaining the 'future focus' of the school and everyone began filing from the hall.

"You'll join us in the staff room?" Severus leaned over her.

"Am I invited?"

"I'm inviting you." A glint sparked the dark depths of his eyes.

"I could hardly refuse a request from the Headmaster now, could I?" She smiled knowingly in return, before taking his proffered hand.

Trays filled with tasty looking appetisers and drinks were being circulated around the staff room by House Elves as part of the official welcome to the new Headmaster. But before she could help herself to anything, Hermione found herself separated from Severus and cornered by Slughorn, who started complaining about the inefficiencies of Muggle communication and explaining why owls were far superior. She was struggling to understand his point and wishing she hadn't agreed to come, when she suddenly heard an unfamiliar sound. Laughter. _Severus?_

She peered over Slughorn's shoulder to see him standing amongst a group of staff with a broad grin, demonstrating something with both hands which caused those around him to laugh even more.

 _Since when had Severus begun laughing freely? And in company?_

Excusing herself from Slughorn, who nodded profusely whilst still muttering to himself, she sidled over to where Severus stood. Choosing a moment when the others were distracted, she raised herself up to whisper in his ear,

"The merriment of the Half-Blottoed Prince?"

He snorted and turned toward her. "Hardly. I have to teach this afternoon."

"I heard you laugh. I assumed . . ."

"That I must be three sheets to the wind?"

"Well . . . two sheets at least."

"Two sheets?" His gaze intensified as he leaned into her. "My only interest in such things is having you inserted between them." His nose grazed against her cheek.

Hermione felt her breath hitch. "When?"

"3pm."

"I'll be there."

As she felt his hand skim down her hip, her skin sizzled, wanting to surge out and capture him.

But she'd have to wait . . . and plan, instead.

* * *

 _2.59pm. She couldn't wait any longer._

Pushing open the classroom door, she was pleased to find him still sitting at his desk, marking papers. The elegant lines of his profile pricked her senses anew. He held himself with such poise, power simmering just beneath the surface. It always felt like he was ready and capable of doing just about anything—most of all she hoped he was always ready to do her.

Tossing his quill down, he immediately made to stand.

"No," she said quickly, locking the door with a flick of her hand. "Stay . . . right . . . there."

He smirked, settling his hands onto the arms of his chair, watching her measured approach with interest.

"I'd hate to interrupt you when you're clearly so busy." She smiled mischievously. "So I'll just settle myself down . . . right . . . here."

Pushing past his knee, she slithered down until she was kneeling between his thighs.

"Comfortable?"

"Actually no, can I have your coat?"

He managed to remove it with a couple of wandless spells and handed it to her to kneel on.

"Let's just pretend that didn't happen for the sake of continuity," she muttered as she settled herself.

He inclined his head, drawing his index finger under his bottom lip and trying not to laugh for risk of ruining whatever moment she was trying to create.

Regaining her seductive composure, she gazed up at him.

"Tell me you've never imagined me kneeling under your desk," she murmured, running both hands up his lovely warm thighs and feeling the muscles flex beneath her fingers.

"I've never imagined you kneeling under my desk." He delivered the words with such deeply convincing authority.

"Liar."

This time the smile took hold. "I simply do as I'm told."

"You do not," she cried indignantly. "You rarely do as you're told. You do as you want and you pretend that it was my idea."

"Perhaps I simply know your mind—your desires—better than you do." He reached out and trailed his fingertips behind her ear.

He was absolutely right of course. And his delicious voice caressing the words 'your desires' was nearly enough to melt her resolve to mush . . . but not quite.

"However, this time you _will_ do as you're told. Hands . . . off." She grasped his wrists and placed them back on the arms of the chair. "As you indicated earlier—at a most inopportune moment I might add—'Headmaster Bulgy-Pants' was rather desperate to meet with the 'student body.' Well I come here, not as the student representative, but representing myself. And I want you to pay attention to what I have to . . . say."

Her lips hovered open and his nostrils flared in anticipation.

Like black ink, the pupils spreading within her brown eyes appeared as desirous pools—seductive and lustful. He knew then that he was in for something special. But, in reality, it had all been special—every moment with her. Each evening he caught himself marvelling at the delightful creature that crawled into his bed like an unexpected gift. Indeed, the moment of unsurpassed agony when he'd imagined her lost to him, made the joy in her presence all the more extreme.

Superimposed upon that was the fact that he'd rapidly fallen for her—he'd found her physically striking obviously, but combined with her nerve, resilience and the exquisite sting of her combative wit . . . it had been all he could do to convince himself of how completely and terribly unsuited they were.

But all that had changed. The years between them had somehow collapsed into insignificance. Her inherent bossiness and innate wisdom made her seem far older than her true age and he, in comparison, felt considerably younger in her presence. A sense of exuberant playfulness captured him, as though she somehow possessed the capacity to reconnect him with the innocence of a youth that had all but bypassed him.

Now she used her extraordinary magnetism to draw him in further, an enticing flexion of one eyebrow, a subtle twitch of her perfect lips as she ever so gradually . . . ambushed . . . his . . . cock. It was never particularly well behaved even when separated from her by a considerable distance. But, now, released and held in her frighteningly confident grip, it was doing the reproductive equivalent of hyperventilating. And she was clearly preparing to resuscitate.

A small breathy grunt squeezed from his chest as, resting her elbows on his thighs, she tilted his shaft forward and delivered a chaste kiss to the base. It was so gentle and reverent that his fingers instantly curled against the arms of his chair, desperate to touch her.

Damp kisses and cooling breaths fluttered along the ridged underside, while delicious tips from her tongue further tantalised his taut flesh as it pulsed within her fist.

When she opened her mouth to suction lightly onto the side, he followed the fine line of her jaw as it rocked up and down with each gentle suck. Inching forward, his fingers trembled slightly as his thighs squeezed protectively around her. The sight of easily the most beautiful mouth he'd ever encountered pleasuring the cock he'd hidden away shamefully for much of his life was almost too exquisite to bear.

Then she looked up at him, those devastatingly brilliant eyes—now infused with a bewitching glint—fusing with his as she took him into her mouth.

"Gods, Hermione," he rumbled, an inadequate plea as his eyes fell closed.

He shouldn't have been surprised by how quickly she'd mastered the skill, but when she could have done very little and still had him jumping out of his skin, the sensation of his throbbing head being kneaded within the muscles of her throat was enough to make his jaw fall open and a groan of ecstasy burst from his chest.

He was going to come.

And he knew it was what she wanted. It was the final act of defiance against the enchantment that had ironically brought them together but also very nearly torn them apart. She'd make him come whenever and wherever she pleased. And . . . right now . . . it was in her mouth.

He clutched her hair as his balls drew up, his ragged moans continuing to fill the room. Then he seized and thrust into her as the first jets of seed erupted. Cracking his eyes open, he watched her swallowing wilfully as each fresh surge exploded from him. She continued to stroke and squeeze his cock until she'd drained every last drop of his release before swallowing a final time and looking up at him with a satisfied grin.

"I think we both enjoyed that." She flicked up a teasing eyebrow as she licked her bottom lip. "Am I to take it that my message was . . . clear?"

"Crystal," he sighed.

Hauling her onto his lap, he kissed her immediately, passionately—thanking those wonderful lips and tongue for making him feel as loved as he did. He was utterly smitten with her. Spellbound. It would normally have been a distressingly precarious place to find himself . . . with his heart so fully in the hands of another. And yet there was nowhere else he wanted it to be.

She loved the strong arms that crushed her against him. He was extremely demonstrative in his affections—in fact he always had been. The intensity with which he held her had come to reflect the depth of his need, his desire, his love for her. And she adored his openness—the way he was willing to make his devotion to her, and even her power over him, known.

"My chambers?" he whispered against her cheek.

"No . . . I've actually got to go. I've organised to do something with Harry and Ron," she responded apologetically.

He sat back and looked at her fully. "I just hoped to be able to return the—"

"I know." She tapped her fingertips against his lips. "But they're my best friends and I haven't spent enough time with them lately."

"Of course," he murmured quietly.

"Severus?" She dipped her head to capture his gaze which had dropped. "I want this to work. I want us to be together—for a very long time. And that means building our relationship into our lives, not replacing everything that came before.

He gave a small nod.

She understood that there was a lot of his life he was more than willing to replace but she absolutely needed her friendships and the balance was going to be important for them moving forward.

"I'll be back at 5."

"Dinner?"

"In your rooms?"

He nodded.

"I'll bring dessert." She kissed him.

"You'll be dessert," he murmured.

"I was hoping you'd say that." She grinned.

Then he pulled her into a loving embrace that conveyed his feelings more than words ever could and she responded with equal intensity. The touch that she'd been so desperate to avoid all those months ago had come to mean more to her than she could express. And if she had it her way, he'd never let her go again.


	33. Epilogue

A/N: Well I must admit that I'm honestly sad that we've reached the end. I've so enjoyed writing this fic, especially having so many wonderful people willing to come on this emotional, and at times turbulent, journey with me. The interest this story has received has been quite overwhelming. Know that I greatly appreciate every engagement, from those amazing people who have taken time to leave feedback to those who quietly jump onto each chapter as it's posted. I always plan a break between stories but it rarely happens. Writing has become a bit too therapeutic to leave for long so no doubt I'll be back some time soon. In the meantime, keep an eye out for 'Vati's Reward.' Take care and all the best, DSx

I'd like to thank the wonderful and ridiculously talented OracleObscured for singing and allowing me to post one of my favourite songs as a theme for this story: "Man with a child in his eyes" - originally by Kate Bush. She sent it to me as a surprise to cheer me up and I begged her to use it so thank you OO, you know I love you. Listen to her wonderful version here: /jmsbya0v

* * *

"Is that really what happened, Uncle George?" The wide-eyed little girl gazed up at the lanky redhead from her beanbag.

"Well, that's how I remember it." George Weasley slumped back on the couch and stretched his neck back until he was facing the ceiling.

"Daddy never told us a story like that." The girl's twin brother piped up, sticking his finger up his nose.

"That's because Daddy doesn't have a very good memory."

"How's it going in here?" Fred Weasley poked his head into the playroom. "Did Uncle George tell you a good story?" He looked suspiciously at his wide-eyed children. "It's been going for a very long time."

"Yes, he told us about Helen and Sebastian," his daughter spoke up.

"Who's that?" Fred frowned.

"They were at Hogwarts and they were very clever and tricked Mouldyvort." She giggled gleefully.

"Oh, okay. Well . . . it's probably time you both started getting ready for bed."

"Owww," the children moaned. "But the story hasn't finished yet."

"Yes it has." George sat up quickly, looking at his watch.

"Five minutes only." Fred raised a hand to indicate.

"Yay!"

George looked between the two eager faces. "It really has finished. There's nothing more."

"But I want to know what happened to Helen and Sebastian. Did they get married?"

"Well . . ." George sighed, settling back in his seat again. "Yes they did, in fact."

"Did you go to their wedding?"

"Uh, yes . . . I did."

"What did Helen wear?" The girl's eyes were shining.

"I believe it was a dress."

"What colour."

"Blue."

"Blue?" The girl frowned. "Wedding dresses aren't blue."

"This one was."

"Does Helen like blue?"

"I suppose she must. She was never particularly traditional."

Silence.

"What happened to Mouldyvort?" The little boy continued to pick his nose.

"Well, first of all, he picked his nose so much that it fell off." George looked at him seriously.

The little boy instantly snatched his hand away and hid it behind his back.

"And, second of all, he died."

"Like Bumbledore?" the little girl asked sadly.

"Yes, exactly like Bumbledore . . . except that no-one was sad."

"I'm sad," she said. "He was funny."

"Umm . . . he actually wasn't that funny."

"You did his voice funny."

"That's probably as funny as he got."

"Oh."

"That's right." The little boy looked up brightly. "You said he was a nasty bastard!" The end of the last word was muffled under George's hand.

"Pasty," George corrected him. "I said Nasty Pasty."

"No you didn't!" the little girl cried.

"Okay, I might have said the other word . . . but you have to say 'Pasty'."

"Why?"

"Because—" George glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. "Otherwise Daddy might not let me tell you any more stories."

"Oh."

"How did Mouldy Pasty die?" The boy's finger was back in his nose.

"Well, in the end it all happened quite easily." George folded his hands behind his head. "Helen and Sebastian came up with a very cunning plan and surprised him one night with a bunch of their friends."

"Were you there?"

"Yes."

"And Daddy?"

"Yes."

"And Uncle Ron and Uncle Harry?"

"Yes."

"What about Draco? Was he still being naughty?"

"Um . . . no. He became quite the hero in the end. He tricked Mouldy Pasty lots more times so that Helen and Sebastian could deliver the final whopping great trick that killed him."

"Is Draco your friend?"

"Yes."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"No . . . we're just . . . friends. Why?"

"Does Vati have a girlfriend?"

"I believe so."

"Is Helen her girlfriend?"

"No, she married Sebastian remember."

"But you said that she wanted to—"

"Time for bed!" George interrupted, glancing over his shoulder again.

"I want to know what happened to Draco's daddy." The little boy crossed his arms. "He was a bastard too!"

"Pasty!" George frowned.

"He was a Basty too," the boy corrected himself.

"Yes. He was a bit. In fact, he ended up losing an eye. And . . . a part of his . . ." George's eyes flickered down to his crotch. "Anyway, he ended up slightly worse for wear."

"Did Mouldy do that?"

"No . . . I understand it was a gang of Muggle women in the end."

"Are Muggles dangerous?"

"Well this lot were quite . . . formidable . . . by all accounts. And remember, he had been a bit of a Basty."

The children nodded solemnly.

"Did Helen and Sebastian have babies?" The little girl's face suddenly brightened.

"Actually . . . it turns out that Helen is going to have some babies very soon."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Daddy's friend, Hermione, is having babies too!"

"What a coincidence!" George slapped his fist into his palm.

"Yes, she's having twins like us." The boy stood up proudly. "And she's fat."

"Do you . . . see her often?" George leaned forward with sudden interest.

"Sometimes she babysits us." The little girl clapped excitedly. "And Severus takes us for rides on his shoulders. He's got a big nose like Sebastian does."

"Oh . . . I didn't realise that you . . ." George rubbed his hands on his trousers. "Probably don't . . . you probably don't need to share any of Uncle George's stories with . . . anyone else."

"But she likes stories. She tells us lots."

George scratched his chin. "But they're probably a bit different to mine."

"Hers make more sense." The boy was pulling fluff out from between his toes.

George was taken aback. "Why don't mine make sense?"

"Who's Master Bates?" The boy looked at him.

"Oh . . . that. I mean . . . him. Well he's just a . . . he's someone you'll . . . meet . . . when you're a bit older."

"Is a pussy a cat?" The girl peered up at him.

"Most of the time."

"Why did he lick her cat?"

George stood quickly. "Because her cat liked it. Okay . . . time for Uncle George to go."

"But you missed out bits," the boy complained.

"Only the boring bits."

"But we're not tired yet," the girl whined.

"Well I am," George huffed. "Tired and emotional, in fact."

"George?" Fred's wife, Eva, suddenly poked her head in the door. "Can I have a quick word please?"

"Of course. Now you two get ready for bed." He mussed up their hair on the way out.

Eva took him a few paces into the corridor before leaning toward him conspiratorially. "We really appreciate you spending time with them. And they miss not seeing you with all the travel you do. And they adore your stories . . . they really do."

"But?" George raised his eyebrows.

"But . . . I think that concepts like 'tired and emotional' are probably a little heavy for them at this age. Perhaps you could keep things a little more age-appropriate for them?"

"Absolutely." George smiled genially. "I'll be sure never to use the words 'tired' or 'emotional' with them again."

She smiled dubiously in return—she knew that mock-placating tone from Fred all too well.

"Okay, my little Flobberworms, I hope you're both ready." Fred strode into the playroom.

"No," the little boy groused.

"Why?"

"Because I can't find my fucky pyjamas."

"You can't find your . . .?! George!"

"Gotta go!" George blurted, pecking Eva on the cheek and grabbing his coat before racing out the door.

* * *

Hermione lay the picnic rug on the grass while Severus helped the twins remove their shoes and socks and rolled up their trousers.

"Don't go in too deep," Hermione warned them. "Just stay by the edge."

"Yes, Mummy," they chorused as they trundled down the river bank, one black head and one light brown bobbing along together.

Kicking off her sandals, Hermione lay down on the rug while Severus uncorked a bottle of white wine and filled a glass for each of them.

"Happy anniversary." He chinked his glass against hers as he gazed deeply into her eyes.

"Happy anniversary." She smiled back at him. "Husband Beloved-Pants."

He smirked as he took a sip. "I didn't think there could be any more HBP references possible."

"Oh, don't you worry, I have plenty more." She took a long swallow before swivelling around to lay her head on his leg with a contented sigh.

Tunnelling his fingers into her hair, he massaged as she closed her eyes and groaned appreciatively.

"Daddy, look what I found." The dark-haired boy plopped something wet in Severus' hand.

"What is it?"

"A rock."

"Are you sure?" Severus asked, holding it up to the sun.

"Think so."

Hermione cracked open her eyes to see her son grinning excitedly, black eyes shining. He knew what was coming.

"Watch," Severus murmured.

Holding the grey stone in his palm, he tapped it with his finger. Instantly it turned pearly white.

"What is it?" The boy leaned close, clasping his hands together.

"I believe there's something inside." Severus handed it back to him.

Carefully the boy peeled back the fragile outer shell to reveal a beautiful blue butterfly. It flicked its wings once, twice and then flew onto the boy's hand. His mouth opened in delight as he twisted his fist around watching the butterfly crawl over him, its stunning wings tilting and righting as it moved.

"Look Mummy!" His wide eyes flickered to Hermione's for only a moment, he didn't want to miss a thing.

"It's beautiful . . . And I think it likes you." She smiled, caressing Severus' thigh with her fingertips.

The boy nodded happily as he wandered off back down the bank.

"They're either going to become very confused about the world or they're going to see magic in everything," she murmured.

"The world is confusing. It's frightening and unpredictable." Severus took another sip of wine as he resumed massaging her head. "But it's also magical. And . . . breathtakingly beautiful."

He gazed down at her with that look that still made her heart want to explode from her chest.

"Look!" The curly-haired girl now staggered up the bank holding something in her first.

"Is that a stick?" Hermione reached out.

"No. Daddy do it." The girl handed the stick to Severus who chuckled at Hermione's mock-indignation.

"What would you like? A wand?" he asked.

"No. Snake."

He ran a hand over his mouth to cover his smile as Hermione sat up.

"You don't really want a snake, do you?"

"Like it." The girl nodded.

Hermione gave Severus a look.

"We said that it would be their choice," Severus reminded her. "That we wouldn't influence them either way."

"Yes . . . but."

Severus ran a finger along the stick and suddenly it began to wriggle, a head forming at one end.

The girl clapped her hands excitedly as he placed the creature on her shoulder. It flicked its tongue out and she poked hers out in response.

"Sssss," she hissed as she patted it gently with a finger before turning and heading back to join her brother.

Hermione folded her arms in exasperation.

"Now, now." Severus leaned in close, his lips grazing her cheek. "She wouldn't be the first stubborn, single-minded, girl to fall for a snake."

Hermione's lips curled up despite herself. "Yes, but the snake I fell for was a hell of a lot bigger than that one." Her hand slipped into his crotch as she kissed him.

He pulled her onto his lap and they kissed and drank and watched their children playing happily in the river.

"I worried that I loved you so much that I wouldn't have enough love left over for them." Hermione nodded at the twins with a watery smile. "But I soon realised that love isn't a quantity, it's infinite. It doesn't need to stop. It can keep going on for . . . always."

It was his word. And she'd used it deliberately. But it was only because of her, because of his wonderful children, that he now truly understood what it meant. Placing his hand against her cheek, his deep black eyes fused with hers. "Yes . . . always."


End file.
